


Watching From the Other Side

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:45:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5691655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection for alternate POV Bellarke fics!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The One and Only My Best Friend - Bellamy POV

**Author's Note:**

> I don't want to update my collections from last year because I like using AO3 to track yearly wordcounts and adding chapters to fics shifts the year they were posted, so here's a new alt-POV collection, woo!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5668996)!

Before Wells Jaha moved to Boston, Bellamy wouldn't have said he was the jealous type.

He's certainly possessive, but he tends to be fairly secure about his place in his friends' lives. He and Octavia don't always get along, but he's her only brother, and no one is ever going to threaten that. He guesses someone else could probably replace him as Miller's best friend, but Miller is generally too lazy and apathetic to meet new people, and he secretly loves Bellamy. And he doesn't care that much if most other people leave, honestly; he'd miss Raven and Monty and Jasper if they moved away or something, but he's not worried they're going to get other friends they like more than they like him. And even if they did, he wouldn't really _care_. He doesn't need to be Monty's favorite. He doesn't care.

Unfortunately, Clarke Griffin exists.

He did not fall instantly and completely in love with Clarke at first sight; he barely noticed her at first sight, honestly. She was just Octavia's new roommate, someone he assumed would have very little impact on his life.

He doesn't even feel stupid for not realizing. How was he supposed to _know_?

Still, the stab of jealousy the first time he sees her throw herself into Wells' arms is as unpleasant as it is unexpected.

Obviously, hew knew he loved her. And he knew she liked Wells. Wells comes up often in her stories about her childhood and college, and he's one of the people she looks forward to seeing when she visits home. He'd always felt a strange kind of lurch at that, but--Clarke saw Wells one or two weeks a year, and sees Bellamy three or four times a week. They weren't in comparable positions in her life. He never felt like a threat.

But Clarke is all bright grins and hugs when Wells arrives, and Bellamy feels a flare of anger so bright and hot that it honestly freaks him out.

"You could just ask her out before he can," Octavia says, as they're driving over to Wells' place.

"I don't want to ask her out."

"Sure you don't. You just want to punch her friend in the face for no reason."

"I don't want to punch him," Bellamy lies. "I don't get why you're making a big deal about this. I'm never friendly to anyone. Why would I make an exception for him?"

"Because he's Clarke's friend," says Raven. "But you don't like him because he's hot and Clarke was touching him more than she was touching you. It's cool, I get it. You're threatened. He's taller than you are."

"I'm not threatened."

"He's hot, too."

"I'm hot," Bellamy grumbles.

"Yeah," Raven says, consoling. "Just not as hot as Wells."

"I can still shove you out of the car."

"But you're not jealous or anything," says Octavia.

"Nope," he says. "Just a misanthropic asshole."

Octavia scowls at him, unimpressed. "Don't be a dick to Clarke about this. You've had three years to make a move on her and you haven't. It's not her fault you didn't and now you've got competition."

If they pretended he wasn't obviously in love with Clarke, it would help, but not as much as it would help if they told him he was overreacting. But apparently they're just going to mock him and tell him that Clarke is just as obviously in love with someone else, so fuck them, honestly.

"I will turn this car around," he tells his sister. "Just give me an excuse."

*

When Clarke moved in with Octavia, she was dating a girl named Lexa. They'd broken up before he became friends with her, so he hadn't had much of an opinion on the two of them. 

He'd been starting to have a thing for her when she went on her two dates with Finn, but they hadn't been serious, and he'd been in denial. Then she found out Finn had another girlfriend and cried on him about it, as much because she was annoyed with herself for caring as from actual heartbreak, and that was when he'd realized, with an uncomfortable lurch, how much she mattered to him.

Of course, being the competent and emotionally mature human being he is, he'd gone out, gotten drunk, and slept with a girl he picked up at a bar, who turned out to be Finn's other girlfriend. A real winning situation all around.

But Clarke hadn't seemed to mind at all. She and Raven became friends, and she liked Bellamy as easily as she always had, in spite of his grumpiness and general failure to act like a real person.

He'd never come up with a specific plan for how to make a move from their existing relationship, in part because he's a fucking coward and in part because he's never really tried to date someone like he wants to date Clarke.

And now Wells is here, and he's too late. 

The first few weeks, Bellamy tries to tell himself it's not a big deal. It's not like he was dating Clarke before, and he's not dating her now. No part of his life has changed, not in any meaningful way. Clarke still hangs out on her couch with him, mocking bad TV shows and bickering about how much skill is really involved in competitive reality shows. He can still convince himself, sometimes, that if he leaned over and kissed her, she'd kiss him back.

Then, it's Wednesday, and Wells opens up Clarke and Octavia's door with his own key.

"Oh, hey," he says, sounding awkward. They're watching Jeopardy, and Bellamy had been thinking about suggesting they order pizza and find a Netflix movie for some kind of drinking game. In theory, there's no reason he can't do that with Wells around, but--he can't. "Betters, right?"

Clarke elbows him. "You know we'd still like you even if you weren't a total dick all the time, right?"

 _You gave him a key_ , he thinks, but says, "I didn't think you liked me now."

"Are we getting pizza?" Clarke asks, ignoring him. "You want in on pizza, Wells?"

"I can take off," Wells says, sounding awkward. "I didn't know you had company."

"Bellamy's not really company," Clarke says, and it's fond, but it still makes his chest twist up. "He practically lives here."

"And I actually have a date to get to," he says, even though it is a total lie, and a shitty one at that. "So you guys can get pizza without me."

Clarke frowns at him. "Who's the date?"

"Just a thing my coworker set up," he says. "I'm not expecting much, but I'll text you pictures if she's hot."

"You better," Clarke says, with a smile that's slightly off, but Wells goes to sit with her and she lets him go. So it's for the best.

*

"You don't get to lie about having plans and then get pissed at Clarke for believing you have plans," Miller tells him. Obviously, there was no way he was going back to his own place, so he ended up at Miller's, which is fine, but not really where he wanted to be with his evening. He could have gotten this same level of Miller interaction remotely.

"She could have asked me to stay."

"Again, you literally told her you had something else to do. You want her to tell you to not go on a date?" Luckily for Bellamy, Miller goes on before he has to respond to this. Unluckily, it's because Miller knows him really well. "Of course you want her to tell you that, and then confess her love or whatever. God, you're a fucking wreck, Blake."

"I know," he says, rubbing his face. "Trust me, I get that I'm the asshole here. I'll deal with it. It's cute, right? They've been best friends forever and they're gonna get married and have adorable kids. It's like a Hallmark movie. I'm excited for them."

"You're pathetic."

"That too, yeah." He rubs his face. "It's fine. She wasn't going to go for me anyway."

"Christ, can't you go to your sister with this stuff? I don't want to be the one who deals with this."

"My sister lives with her."

Miller sighs, like Bellamy's friendship is a great burden. To be fair, it probably is. He wouldn't be friends with himself. "Look, I'm saying this once: we all assumed you and Clarke were gonna be a thing. Everyone thought that. So don't act like just because some other guy showed up you never had a chance or whatever. You probably _still_ have a chance. So stop being a mopey asshole and ask her out like an adult."

He opens and closes his mouth a couple times, and then says, "Yeah, definitely only say that once. That was so fucking awkward. I can't take your genuine support."

Miller snorts and cuffs him. "She's gonna marry that Wells dude and have fifteen kids."

"Awesome, much better."

*

It takes her a month to call him out on acting weird, and when she does, he can't even be pissed at her for not noticing sooner, because she just thinks he was mad at her or Octavia. And, as Miller said, he was actually flat-out lying to her most of the time; whenever he didn't have a specific place he was going, she _always_ told him to stay. And stupid fucking Wells did too, to add insult to injury. They both seem to genuinely want him to hang out with them, which sucks, because they're good company, except for all the flirting and his stupid jealousy.

The flirting really is the worst part, because--honestly, Bellamy had finally gotten around to thinking he and Clarke were going to be a thing himself. And he can't actually turn off the part of his brain that wants to believe that. He'll be hanging out with her and she'll grin at him or knock their shoulders together or flush a little when he smiles and it feels like--

And then Wells is there and she'll kiss him on the cheek or tease him about how ripped he is and Bellamy remembers, all at once, that he missed his chance. 

It's a fucking shitty few months, honestly. He'd been sure he was in love with her before Wells showed up, and he can't just shut it off, even if he knows he should. He really is happy for her. They're a good couple.

And then he sees Raven and Wells on his way home from picking up takeout, Wells leaning down to press his mouth against Raven's, and honestly? He just loses all control of his common sense.

Part of it is just _Wells_ , who has been hanging out, cheerfully ruining Bellamy's life for three months, and being hateable mostly because he's so _unhateable_. There is literally nothing wrong with him, except that Clarke likes him, and now it turns out he doesn't even have the good sense to like her back, which--Bellamy loves Raven. He does. She's amazing. But--this is going to break Clarke's heart, and that's not fucking okay, because he remembers Finn and how she was after that, and Raven should too.

If he'd actually continued with that line of thought, he would have realized earlier how stupid the whole thing was. But he also just really wants to fucking punch the kid, so he does.

It's really not as satisfying as he hoped it would be. 

"What the fuck!" Raven demands.

"What the fuck _you_!" he says, which is really not his best response. "I can't believe you guys would do this to Clarke!"

Raven looks like she's about ready to fight him, but Wells shakes his head slightly, because--fuck him, seriously. Bellamy just caught him, if not cheating, then at least being a dick, and _punched him_ , and he looks all calm and rational. It's not like Bellamy needs help feeling like an asshole, but god, does Wells Jaha make him feel like the biggest fucking asshole in the world, without even _trying_.

"What did we do to Clarke?" Wells asks, mild, even as he's cradling his face.

"You know how she feels about you!" Bellamy says. "And you went behind her back to--" Raven raises her eyebrows, and his brain finally registers that this is fucking _idiotic_. There is no fucking way. "You didn't go behind her back."

"Nope," says Raven. "She gave us her blessing."

He almost argues with her, tells her Clarke is just being polite and self-sacrificing, but Raven would never let her get away with that shit. Raven wouldn't do it unless she was sure. "Fuck," he says. "Fuck, I'm so sorry. I, uh--fuck."

"You're a dick," Raven says. "Who punches people, seriously? Are you ten?"

"Sorry," he tells Wells. "Did you guys get dinner? I can pay for your dinner. I can just give you some cash. Or, uh--fuck, seriously, I'm the world's biggest asshole."

"It's fine," Wells says, at the same time Raven says, "You really are," and then Raven punches him, which honestly makes him feel a lot better.

"Dinner was fifty bucks," she adds.

"I've just got forty-two on me," he says, once he's mostly recovered from the punch. Someone definitely taught Raven how to fight at some point in her life. He's going to have one hell of a black eye. "I'll buy you guys a round next time we go out?"

"You don't have to," Wells protests. "You were just looking out for Clarke. I get it."

"He knows better," Raven says.

"I do know better," he admits. He gives her half a smile. "Sorry I--you'd never do that, I'm dick for thinking you would."

"Yeah, you're a fucking mess lately," Raven says. "You should talk to her."

"I will," he assures her, but she must not believe him, because he's been home for less than twenty minutes when Clarke shows up in his room and shoves him onto his bed. Not so they can make out, like in about half of his fantasies, but she is inspecting his face and tending to his injury, so at least there's that.

"You're lucky she didn't break your nose," she murmurs, once she's gotten the story out of him. She's leaning in close enough that her hair is brushing against his face, and she feels possible, really possible, for the first time in three months. 

"I know," he says. And then, heart in his throat, he adds, "You're not in love with Wells."

"No. I was going to tell you."

He can't look at her. "You don't have to keep me informed about who you're not in love with. I don't need an exhaustive list of people you don't want to date."

"It would be a lot easier if I just gave you a list of people I do want to date," she says, voice light. "It's so much shorter than the list of people I don't want to date."

"Yeah? How many people are on it?"

The kiss isn't a surprise, which feels kind of amazing all by itself. She leans in to press her mouth her mouth to his and he feels like things are finally slotting into place, like the world is right again. They should have been doing this for years.

The angle is awkward, but she's in his lap, warm and real and _Clarke_ , and he strokes her thumb against his jaw. One of her hands comes up to his shoulder, like she's bracing herself, and he belatedly realizes she's still trying to take care of his eye, which--god, she's kissing him, who _cares_?

"Jesus Christ, fuck the stupid peas," he mutters, throws them away so he can really kiss her, the way he's always wanted to. Clarke settles into his lap like she belongs there, kisses him back like she's been wanting this for as long as he has, and everyone might be right, he really might be an idiot.

But she is kissing him, and his eye doesn't even hurt that much. So he's had worse nights, really.

*

"I'm surprised your sister didn't tell you," Clarke remarks. They've moved on from making out to snuggling and watching Netflix, which Bellamy would ordinarily consider a downgrade, but their legs are tangled together and Clarke's hand is under his shirt, warm on his stomach, and she already texted Octavia to say she was staying the night, so he's pretty sure he's going to get laid, and the girl he's in love with loves him back. Plus, his eye is still kind of fucked up and it's hard to ice it and make out at the same time. Netflix is probably a good idea until the swelling goes down.

"Tell me what?" he asks.

"She was there for Raven's whole _Do you want to date Wells or can I do it and you keep pining away after Bellamy?_ thing. I thought maybe she'd tell you and save me the problem."

"You were pining?"

She cranes her neck back to squint at him. "Yeah, of course. You didn't get that?"

"It's just so _stupid_ ," he says, letting his head drop back against the wall with a soft laugh. "God. One of us should have noticed."

"Someone should have told me you all thought I was into Wells earlier! How was I supposed to know?"

"You were supposed to be into him," Bellamy teases, nudging his nose against her temple. "We all thought you already knew."

"Everyone thought I was into you first," she grumbles. "Do you guys think I'm fickle? Is that it?"

"I never said _I_ thought you were into me. I assume everyone was was just watching the trainwreck and taking bets on whether or not we'd end up in some threesome arrangement. Everyone we know is an asshole."

"True." She laughs and snuggles closer. "Too bad he's dating Raven. We totally could have gotten that threesome thing working."

"Yeah, uh, I definitely just found out I'm the jealous type. That would not go well."

"You _just_ found out? How do you just find that out? You're thirty."

He feels his cheeks heat up, but Clarke already knows most of the dumbass shit about him, so it feels pointless to try to make something else. "I've never needed to be jealous of anyone before," he admits. "It never came up."

"And you picked Wells. _Wells_ , Bellamy."

"I would have been jealous of anybody," he admits. "It wasn't really about Wells."

"So, you're going to stop being a dick to him?"

"Absolutely."

"And you're going to eat me out now?"

He chokes a little, but she's grinning. "Is that where we are?" he asks, keeping his voice cool with an effort. It still doesn't really work, but at least he's _trying_. 

"Unless you want to keep talking about your feelings."

He really does love her. "Fuck no," he says. "Absolutely not. Get naked."

Clarke grins. "That's more like it," she says, and it really, really is. This is exactly how it should be.


	2. Forever and/or Down in Flames - Clarke POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original story [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4113070)!

The thing is, Clarke knows she is a shitty roommate. She lived with Lexa, and it would have been impossible to live with Lexa and not hear, extensively, about her failures as a roommate. And she'd tried with Lexa, she honestly had. She just sucked at it. Lexa was the first person she'd ever lived with in a real, adult living situation. She'd lived with her parents before college and had no cleaning or cooking responsibilities, and in college, she was in a dorm. There was a different kind of upkeep.

She'd only let Lexa move in to begin with because she was hot and her roommate sucked, and once Lexa left, she wasn't planning to get a new roommate, honestly. Maybe when Raven got back, she could move in, if she wanted to, except Raven would probably murder her.

Giving the room to Bellamy was absurd and stupid, honestly. They already didn't get along, and Clarke knows that moving in is unlikely to make anyone like her more.

And then, the weirdest thing happens: Bellamy doesn't care. Not in any of the ways she'd expected he would. She makes almost no effort to be any good, as a roommate, aside from making sure to wear clothing in public areas, and Bellamy grumbles and complains and tells her she's a mess, but Clarke gets the impression he kind of likes it, secretly. Even though Octavia's never said it in so many words, Clarke knows Bellamy likes taking care of people, but not in the straightforward way that feels patronizing. He likes caring without seeming to care at all, and Clarke makes that easy for him.

Living with Bellamy should still be a complete and total disaster, by all rights. She's so shitty at it. But against all odds, it's great instead. No one else understands it, but they don't have to; Clarke figures she's allowed to have an inexplicable roommate relationship. Her last one was pretty weird, why would this one be any different?

Then, the last week of September, she's showing some of her paintings at a gallery, and he shows up.

It shouldn't surprise her; she told him the show was happening and he asked where and when, but she'd just sort of assumed it was his general preference for knowing her schedule, not an indication he wanted to come.

Bellamy works at the National Museum of the American Indian as an educator, which is perfect for him because he gets to rant about how much he hates colonialism and doesn't have to wear a tie. She didn't even think he _owned_ a tie. He might not be as much of a slob as she is, but when he isn't going to work, he basically lives in flannel pajama pants and old t-shirts with weird slogans he got from Goodwill. At work, he tends to wear jeans and dark button-downs, so it's nice, but not--fancy.

He gets to the gallery at six-thirty, wearing a crisp white shirt, pressed black slacks, and a dark blue tie that goes really well with his complexion.

He's also smiling at her, and Clarke recognizes the lurch in her stomach as it happens and tries to pull it back. She can't be interested in _Bellamy_. She _can't_. Liking Lexa was bad enough; getting crushes on her roommates can't be her new thing.

"You came," she says, blank.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Yeah, obviously." His smile falters, and he looks nervous. "Sorry, was I not supposed to?"

"No, no. Of course you--you didn't _have_ to. But I'm happy you did."

He considers her for another minute, and then snorts and puts his arm around her for a half hug. She already knew he was warm and solid and smelled like spice and earth, but she didn't need to be reminded right this minute. "This is a big deal, right? I know it's not your first show, but every one is a big deal. So I wanted to come."

Clarke finds herself smiling. "Yeah, every one is a big deal."

"Cool. It looks awesome, by the way. I'd say it's amazing you can produce art given, you know, you're a total mess, but your art is a total mess too. You just figured out how to make it work for you."

"Much like everything else about my life," she says, bright, and he leaves his arm around her shoulders as she shows him her pieces. He's smiling and laughing and just--Clarke hadn't quite realized, how nice it was, how _comfortable_ she is with him.

She hadn't realized she liked him either, but that's less exciting and more terrifying. Still, she tells herself it's not a big deal. So she's a little bit into Bellamy. She's putting no effort into being a functional human around him, so there's no way he's going to feel the same. 

It's just a little crush. She's vulnerable, and she sees him more than anyone. She'll be fine.

*

"So, still in love with the new roommate?" Raven asks. It's Halloween and she's putting the finishing touches on decorations. Clarke loves decorating for Halloween; she can carve a bunch of weird pumpkins and put weird, terrifying nightmare creations all over her yard without getting yelled at for scaring kids.

"I have still never said I'm in love with the new roommate," Clarke says, like she always does. Then, because Raven knows she is anyway, she adds, "He went on a date the other day."

"Ouch."

"It's fine. He's pretty social, honestly. It's weird, considering how much he hates everyone."

"Do you need a hug? I can call Octavia and tell her you need a hug."

"I don't need a hug."

"Seriously, how long has it been since you got laid? I can't even remember the last time."

Clarke pauses, thinks, briefly, about telling Raven about Lexa. It's only been five months since Lexa left, which means she's still in the acceptable breakup recovery period. But she doesn't really feel like she's recovering. She's not even that upset that Bellamy is dating. She's jealous, of course, but mostly because Bellamy has to date Echo on Echo's schedule, which means he'll go out with her nights she's free, instead of just going out to bars and hooking up when Clarke has night shifts. She doesn't mind, so much, that he might have a girlfriend; she just minds that he has a girlfriend who gets some of her time with him.

Okay, maybe she's a little upset.

"I have so many sex toys," Clarke says, which is true, at least. "I don't need other people to get laid. I'm getting all the orgasms I need and then some. Also, are _you_ getting laid? You can't talk."

"I am getting laid, thanks for asking."

"Great," says Clarke. She drops out of the tree where she was hanging skeletons and finds Bellamy on the ground, watching her. "Oh, hey, roommate's home, I need his help with the big decorations. Happy Halloween."

"Tell him you need his help with his big--" 

Clarke hangs up and wipes her hands on her jeans. "Hey, how was work?" He usually doesn't work Saturdays, but he was doing special Halloween programs; he's been planning them all month, it was cute.

"Really good. Your art was a big hit."

"Cool. Did you get a really inadvisable amount of candy?"

"We're going to be eating it until next Halloween, yeah. What am I helping you hang up?"

Between the two of them, they get everything set up, and then they head inside to watch every Halloweentown movie ever made while they wait for trick-or-treaters. She can't help remembering Halloween last year, when Lexa wanted to go to a party and she'd ended up getting in a fight with Raven there. It wasn't really anyone's fault--Lexa and Raven were just not a good combination--but Clarke is coming to realize that she's not really much of a party person, not when she could be at home with her dog and her--with Bellamy.

Her roommate.

"The worst part of this is that I've already seen every one of these movies," Bellamy grumbles, halfway through Halloweentown 2.

Clarke leans her head against his shoulder, completely content. "That's why we're friends."

He leans back, and some part of Clarke can't help wanting it, wanting _everything_ , but she tamps it down. She's got enough. She doesn't need more.

But it would be nice. If she could ever figure out how.

*

"So, you going to tell me what's wrong?" Wells asks. 

Clarke's been spending Thanksgiving with Wells since her dad died, and she feels only a little guilty that she's pretty sure that's why he stopped spending Thanksgiving with his own father. Wells and his dad aren't quite as bad as Clarke and her mother, but they still aren't exactly close, so she only feels slightly bad. And he and Maya have been doing Thanksgiving with their Boston friends for a few years, so it's not like it's _just_ Clarke.

"Next year is an election year and our parents will probably get reelected," she says. "That's pretty bad." Wells just looks at her, unimpressed, and Clarke finds her mouth opening, words spilling out. "I was sleeping with my old roommate. I thought we were--I thought she might be it, and now I'm really glad she wasn't, but I liked her so much and no one else did so I never told anyone and it was--it sucked. She just left. And now I've got a new roommate and I'm so crazy about him, I don't even--I've never felt like this before, but he's got a girlfriend and maybe it's just--maybe I just fall for people I live with. Maybe that's my thing. And if that's it then I'm an asshole, right?"

Wells is quiet, and then he says, "What do you like about him? The new roommate. It's the guy, right? Bellamy? Octavia's brother?"

"Yeah." She considers. "He makes me feel like I'm--good. The way I am. But also like he wouldn't mind if I was better." She sighs. "God, this makes it sound like I just want someone who doesn't give a shit that I'm a disaster, but that's not it. He'd call me out in a second if I did anything _bad_ , and he teases me all the time, but he knows I'm--I can just be myself. And I know he likes who I am. And that's how I feel about him too. He's grumpy and kind of stupidly anal about vacuuming, like--seriously, if he doesn't do it by the end of Saturday you can see him getting twitchy, it's amazing. We went to a party at Octavia'd one time and he hadn't had a chance to clean before we left and he just drunk-vacuumed the entire apartment. And he loves his sister too much and kind of sucks at having friends and I just--" She shakes her head and buries her face against Wells' shoulder. "He's my favorite."

"Okay," says Wells, putting his arm around her and squeezing. "What about Lexa?"

"What about her?"

"Did she make you feel like that?"

She thinks it over for a long time, and finally says, careful, "She made me feel like I had a lot of potential, like I could be great. Like _we_ could be great. But in an alternate universe, maybe. If I wasn't--me."

He squeezes her again. "Doesn't really sound like it's about being roommates. Maybe you're just lucky. Most of us have to work to find people we're into; they just wander into your apartment and move in."

Clarke laughs. "I'm doing fine, honestly. I'm just working on--pining is new for me. I don't know how to do it."

"Well, it sucks," he tells her. "But don't worry. You'll get used to it."

*

As it turns out, she's pretty good at pining. What she's bad at is making a move. Bellamy and Echo break up, and things go back to normal, which mostly means Bellamy is around every night, instead of most nights. She wants to make out with him a lot and has some really frustrating dreams, but she can't figure out how to even start making them a reality. It feels so _stupid_ , not knowing how. This is _Bellamy_. She never has trouble talking to Bellamy.

It's why she starts flirting at bars; she figures she's just out of practice, and if she starts fucking other people, it'll help. But, as it turns out, getting a stranger to have sex with you involves a completely different skill set from telling your roommate you want to marry him. Her best bet honestly feels like coming up with some kind of absurd rom-com reason they _have_ to get married, but she's not sure where to start with that either, aside from watching a bunch of rom-coms.

Raven doesn't help. Clarke's thrilled she's home, of course, but having her actually watching as Clarke fails to make a move on Bellamy is so much worse than her just judging remotely. She starts spending less time with him when Raven is around, to minimize that, and hopes he won't notice. But he definitely does, and he's weird, and she can't figure out how to fix it. It's his birthday and she's being a shitty friend and she needs to just _tell him_ , and somehow, she still can't.

Thankfully, he does it first, and it's honestly the best thing that has ever happened in her entire life. He _loves her_. It's as unfathomable that he does as that he might not have; she couldn't imagine the rest of her life if he didn't feel the same, but it's still so much to wrap her head around that he does.

And somehow he just _goes to sleep_ after, like this is not the biggest deal of all time. Clarke can't even imagine sleeping. Her entire body is tingling, and she can't stop smiling.

Then again, he's drunk, so of course _he_ can sleep. She wasn't that drunk to begin with, and his words have completely sobered her up.

She takes the dog for a run, just for the hell of it, and can't stop thinking about it. It's just--Bellamy _loves her_. And it's not a surprise in some ways, because of course he's fond of her, and he's one of those people who loves all his friends. But he loves her like she loves him, and he loves her even though she doesn't like sleeping in beds and has no interest in a steady job and has been slowly stealing all of the bottle caps in the house for a collage she's making. He knows her, and he loves her, and it's like nothing she could have imagined.

She spends the rest of the night in her room, frantically doing an entirely new painting for him. There's a mostly done portrait in the same style as the one she did of Octavia for Christmas, but that doesn't feel right anymore. It looks like him, but it doesn't _feel_ like him. It doesn't feel like what she's feeling now.

She doesn't know what time she finishes, but when she finally drags herself out of her room to try to eat something, she finds Bellamy gone and Sparky lying by the door, the picture of canine abandonment. She can't help worrying, but--they're out of milk and most of the food in their fridge is bread and cheese, so it's possible he decided he wanted to eat real food or something. And she can't imagine he'd leave if he decided he doesn't love her after all; he's more likely to run because he meant it and he thinks he fucked up.

She chugs the rest of the orange juice, puts the carton back in the fridge, and, out of lack of anything else to do, decides to make Bellamy a grilled cheese. He likes hot food when he's hungover, and it's possible he's hungover. If he doesn't come home in time to eat the sandwich himself, she'll have it. It's as good a plan as any.

She's on the third grilled cheese when he gets back, which is good. She probably would have kept going until she ran out of ingredients.

"Did you get milk?" she calls.

"Are we out of milk?" he calls back, sounding fairly normal.

"Yes!"

"Is the empty carton still in the fridge?"

She knows it is, but she checks anyway. If it's _not_ in the fridge, it just goes in the sink to get rinsed out, and then the sink fills up and becomes unusable. It makes more sense to leave it in the fridge until she's ready to recycle it. She doesn't understand why Bellamy fails to get this. "Yes."

"Then I didn't know we were out of milk. This is why we throw shit away."

"Shut up!" she says, cheerful. "If you weren't buying milk, where were you?"

His voice is sheepish when he admits, "I was begging Octavia to let me move in with her. She sent me back here."

Clarke nearly trips in her rush to get out of the kitchen to look at him. He's kneeling down, petting the dog, and his smile is embarrassed. The tips of his ears are red. She wants him so much she aches with it.

"You begged Octavia to let you move in with her?"

He frowns. "Are you cooking?"

"I was going to make french toast," she says, not blushing with effort. "But no milk, so--grilled cheese. Come talk to me in the kitchen so it doesn't burn."

He waits until they're in the kitchen to ask, "Did you forget what happened last night?"

"No. You begged Octavia to let you move in with her?" 

"Not quite begged." He hops up onto the counter next to her, still blushing. He feels stupid about it; that means he probably meant it. But-- _moving out_. He can't move out. She doesn't know what she'd do without him. "You slept in your bed," he says, soft. "I figured that meant--I don't know. Something bad."

It relaxes her all at once, because of course he'd think that. She hasn't slept in her bed since he moved in.

She finishes off the sandwich and shoves it at him before she goes to get the picture. It's the best explanation she's got, because--it feels better than saying she loves him. More important, somehow. After all, she needs a really good explanation for why she'd be in her room. He's not wrong; it's alarming.

He stares at the picture long enough that she gets nervous, just starts rambling, until she finally can't help saying, "I can't believe you asked to move in with Octavia because you thought I slept in my bed."

"I told you I loved you," he says, still staring at the canvas. She's just as glad he can't see what her face is doing. "I thought that might be weird for you."

"You also said you were jealous of _Raven_ ," she says. Maybe she's never going to be able to say it. Maybe she won't figure out how. "That was weird." She gathers up the skillet and dishes to wash. "The other stuff was good," she adds, voice not even shaking. "I wish you'd told me sooner."

It must be good enough for him, because she can feel the smile in his voice when he asks, "Why are _you_ embarrassed? I already said it. Twice, even. And you haven't. Don't leave me hanging."

"What did you tell Octavia?" she asks.

"That I told you I loved you, and you slept in your room, so she won our bet and I couldn't live with you anymore. Then she sent me back here. Three times."

"It's not a competition, Bellamy." But she still feels a little like she's losing. She thought she couldn't say it because she was afraid he didn't feel the same, but the words are still sticking in her throat. If she says it, it's the rest of her life. And she wants that, but--it's so much. She doesn't know how to get something she wants like this. "Sure?" she asks, finally.

"Sure," he says. "For months. Since I broke up with Echo."

She can't help a delighted grin at that. Not that--she _liked_ Echo. But still. "I was so fucking jealous of her," she says, and Bellamy grins back, is still grinning when he kisses her, full and real and just as sure as she is. Just like she wanted.

"I like the painting," he murmurs against her mouth.

"It was supposed to be this big romantic gesture. Like, here's this work of art." She closes her eyes as he kisses under her ear. "It means I love you too," she says, and the world doesn't change, not really. He already knew. He's already _hers_. He gets it.

But it still feels so fucking good to finally say it.

*

"You know there's over thousand bucks in the marriage jar," Bellamy remarks. Clarke is half asleep in his lap with the dog, but she mostly wakes up at that. 

They came up with fairly simple rules for adding to the jar: Clarke has to put in a five every time she leaves an empty carton in the fridge, and Bellamy has to put in a ten every time he starts ranting about how unrealistic a tv show or movie is, which means they put about twenty bucks a week in, as well as all their spare change.

"You counted?"

She feels him shrug. "It's September next week."

"And September is the traditional _count your weird jar of money_ month."

"It's our anniversary," he says, gruff.

"Our anniversary is your birthday."

He inclines his head. "Yeah, but--I moved in September first. That feels like where it started, you know? It might have taken us five months, but this is--it was all over for me the first day. I just didn't notice for a while."

Clarke's smile is undeniably goofy, too big to really maintain for extended periods of time, and she'd be embarrassed, except she's pretty well past the point of feeling embarrassed in front of Bellamy. He knows every bad thing about her, and being totally gone for him isn't even a bad thing. "I guess, yeah."

"So, yeah," he says, clearing his throat. "We could probably do courthouse on the first and then party on the third. That's a Saturday."

"You think we have enough money for a good wedding party?"

"Nope," he says, easy. "But we definitely have enough to buy cheap vodka for all our friends."

"And that's what you want for your wedding. Cheap vodka in our backyard?"

"Sorry, was that not what you wanted?" he asks, dry.

Sometimes, Clarke tries to tell people how lucky she is, to have Bellamy. To have someone who understands her (sometimes) and accepts her (always), who wants all the important things she wants, who just--gets it.

Unfortunately, the explanations always seem to involve also explaining that she doesn't like sleeping in beds and might not qualify as a functioning human, so she has trouble really getting it across. It's possible no one else will ever understand the exact extent to which Bellamy Blake is the actual best.

But that's fine. Clarke knows.

"That's exactly what I want," she says, closing her eyes again. "Let's do it."


	3. In All the Land - Bellamy POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5759365)!

If the guy wasn't an actual prince, Bellamy definitely would not believe him.

He's honestly not sure why Prince Finn even starts up the conversation, except that he's drunk and bitter and appears to think that Bellamy is a sympathetic audience. Which is really just a sign of how drunk he is, because everyone knows Bellamy doesn't care about this shit. Most people realize quickly that Bellamy is not someone who cares about sad rich people.

"She _should_ have been begging me to marry her," Prince Finn is saying.

"Uh huh," says Bellamy.

"I'd be a great king, and she needs one. She's young and inexperienced. We were friends when we were children. But she's being so _unreasonable_. I don't know what's going to happen to Arcadia."

Octavia glances at Bellamy as she passes, and he rolls his eyes. His sister will kill him if he scares off a prince. Royals stopping by is great for business, assuming they leave happy.

"She's never going to get married if her expectations are so unreasonable," Finn continues.

"Yeah?" Bellamy asks, curious in spite of himself. He's heard some about Queen Clarke Griffin, and most of it has been good. She's apparently somewhat peculiar, but still a good ruler who cares about her people, for all she was thrust into power with no warning after her parents passed. 

He'd also heard softer, stranger rumors about the terms of winning her hand, but no one's ever actually come out and told him those terms. He'll admit he's been wondering about it, just idly. He likes knowing things.

"What she wants is _impossible_."

"Dragon head? Two dragon heads? Tell me when I hit the right number of dragon heads."

Prince Finn snorts. "Nothing so heroic." He leans in, like he's telling Bellamy a great secret. "She expects _sexual satisfaction_."

"Doesn't everyone?" he asks, before he can think better of it. The prince is never going to come back. Granted, he seems to be kind of an idiot, but still. He's a rich idiot.

"She wanted me to bring her to climax more times in an hour than she could do herself. At least the attempt was enjoyable, but--"

"How many times?" Bellamy asks. If it's true, Queen Clarke Griffin is his new favorite royal. For telling a bunch of other asshole royals they have to be good in bed to marry her, if nothing else.

"What?"

"How many times can she do it?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"You didn't even ask?"

"She told me I didn't make it," he says, sourly. "I don't see how anyone could. Whoever heard of such a thing?"

"Yeah, sounds impossible," Bellamy says, but--he's really _curious_ now. If Prince Finn is right, and that's really the condition for marrying her, he's a little impressed. And he wants to know what the number is, and how it's going for her.

It's not far to Arcadia. He could take a few days off.

"You're going to try to marry a queen?" Octavia asks the next day, sounding dubious.

"I might get executed for impertinence," he says. "But if I'm not, then yes."

"Why?"

"Because I think I might be able to."

"You want to be King of Arcadia? What do you even have to do?"

"I mostly just want to meet the Queen of Arcadia," he says, ignoring the second half of her question. He gives her half a hug around the shoulders and pecks her on the temple. "I'll see how it goes after that."

He's not sure what he's expecting, when he gets to the palace. It's common knowledge that the queen is looking for a spouse, and he already knew that she'd placed no official restrictions on gender, class, or age, aside from being past majority. But Bellamy's no fool; he knows they won't let just anyone marry a queen, and there could be plenty of unofficial restrictions to disqualify him long before he meets her.

But when he says he's coming to try for the queen's hand, they take his name, his age, and his occupation, and then the queen's adviser comes in to speak with him.

He's a few years younger than Bellamy, probably about the queen's age, and he has to wonder if there are any adults still involved in the Arcadian government. 

"I'm Wells," says the man, offering his hand. "Bellamy Blake?"

"That's me?"

"And you'd like to marry the queen?"

It doesn't really feel like his goal, but he's pretty sure if he said _I just want to know if Prince Finn is full of shit and how many orgasms she's trying to get_ , they wouldn't let him in. But it's not like they're really going to let him marry her anyway, so it doesn't really matter.

"I figured I might as well give it a shot."

"You're twenty-five?"

"Yeah."

"A tailor?"

"Yeah."

Wells looks at him hard, and Bellamy tries to figure out how he's supposed to respond. Whatever he does, it must work, because Wells just nods. "Sounds good. The queen's in a council meeting, she'll be done in an hour. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Would you like to clean up?"

Bellamy looks down at himself. He's a little travel-worn, and if he's going to see a queen, he should maybe deal with that. But he can't help asking, "That's it? You're just going to let me see her?"

"She does have guards. I wouldn't try to assassinate her if I were you."

"I wasn't going to," he says. "Uh--I could wash my face or something?"

"Of course. I'll take you to a room to wait."

And then Bellamy just gets to relax in a fucking _castle_ for an hour, in a really comfortable room with some awesome food and a basin of warm water. He's got a pretty good life now, better than he had when he was growing up, but it's nothing like _this_.

And of course, once that's done, he gets to meet the queen.

She's around Octavia's age, as he knew, dressed in practical clothing, a blouse and trousers, with a small gold coronet in her hair. She still _looks_ regal, but there's no fine gown or excessive jewelry. Although she looks like the women he sees at Octavia's, she doesn't feel that way.

And she's gorgeous, of course, her hair in bright waves over her shoulders, her blue eyes sharp. She has a beauty mark on her lip and some curves he can't help admiring. Her smile is polite and a little distant, but when she sees him, he can feel her eyes sweep over him, and her interest is plain.

"Welcome to Arcadia," she says, rising. He's never met a queen; he wonders at what point he's supposed to bow to her. "It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Clarke."

He can't help smiling. "You're the Queen. Everyone knows your name."

That seems to relax her a little. "And you did come to marry me. I just wanted to make sure you were in the right place."

"I figured it was worth a try." Embarrassment finally sets in, and he can't look at her. "Although I'm not sure the terms I heard for winning your hand were accurate."

Judging from her smile, Queen Clarke really _likes_ this part. Which makes him feel better. He guesses if she didn't want to have these conversations, she wouldn't have set such interesting terms for her hand. "What did you hear?"

"Anyone who could make you come more times in an hour than you can make yourself come," he says, not letting himself flush. He's compelled to add, "But the prince I heard it from was very drunk. And fairly stupid."

"Which one was that?" 

He pauses. "I don't know if I should be telling you which princes I disrespect, your majesty."

Her smile widens, and she's getting less stiff and proper by the second. "Please, feel free. I haven't respected any of the ones who have tried for me."

"Prince Finn. He came into my sister's tavern after he failed to win you and claimed your terms were impossible. I don't think he realized women experienced sexual climax, honestly."

She makes a face, and her opinion of the prince might be even lower than his. "He did not, no. I had to demonstrate once he'd spent himself. So, your sister owns a tavern. What do you do? What's your name?"

"Bellamy Blake," he says, and throws in an attempt at a bow, for good measure. "I'm a tailor, your majesty."

"A tailor."

He can't read her tone, but he bristles anyway. "I heard no restrictions placed on who could try for your hand."

"No, there weren't any. If you'd like to try, you're welcome. The terms you heard were correct. If you can bring me to orgasm more times in an hour than I can do myself, I'll happily marry you."

"How many is that?" he asks. He really _is_ curious.

"Five."

It's a lot, which explains why she's been looking for a year. Not everyone could be as incompetent as Prince Finn. "And I'm just supposed to believe you?" he asks, and hopes that's not grounds for immediate beheading or something.

She looks a little put out, but not offended. "Excuse me?"

Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest. "No offense, but I think I should have some proof that you're capable of doing what you claim. Maybe five was just a particularly good hour. If you can get yourself off five times in an hour, I want to see it."

"Do you?" Her voice is distant again, formal, but she's blushing, so he's pretty sure it's to cover her reaction.

She's _cute_. "I really do."

"That seems fair," she says, still regal. "You're welcome to dine with me tonight, and I'll bring you to my bedchambers after. You'll have to spend another night in the palace. It wouldn't be fair to make you go after I've worn myself out."

It takes some effort to not think about how she wears herself out, but he mostly manages. "Oh no, two nights in the palace. What a horrible punishment."

Her snort of laughter is completely undignified, and it makes him grin. "Go let the steward change you into something more respectable," she says. There's a teasing spark in her eye. "He'll have conniptions if he doesn't."

"Understood, your majesty."

"Clarke is fine."

She's smiling, sounds like she means it, so he smiles back. "Clarke. See you soon."

*

The last woman Bellamy bedded was Gina, almost six months ago. For a while, he had been promiscuous, taking any woman who showed an interest he returned, having a great deal of fun with it. But he had been starting to think of marriage, more interested in real companionship than just a night's pleasure. He and Gina had made a try at it, but in the end, they'd preferred friendship to marriage, and he hasn't met anyone else who sparked his interest.

It's a little disconcerting, realizing that Clarke _does_ interest him. They dine together, and she's smart and passionate, concerned about her people, honest and open, once she relaxes. She seems to like him, chats with him easily, smiles and laughs without apparent self-consciousness. He guesses she doesn't get to chat a lot, and while there's still this tension, the knowledge that as soon as this meal is over, they're going to her rooms and he's going to get to watch her touch herself, it's not _bad_ tension. Honestly, it's perfect.

Her room is large and lavish, but it's a _mess_ , which makes him like her more. There's a desk covered in papers, a rumpled dress on a chair, and the bed hasn't been made.

"Don't you have servants to clean up after you?" he teases.

"It's not their fault I can't take care of myself, I don't see why they should have to suffer for it," she says. She catches her lip in her teeth, looking nervous, and he nearly kisses her, just for reassurance, but--he thinks he shouldn't.

"So, when does the hour start?" he asks instead. "Do you start with or without your clothes?"

She laughs, tension dropping off her shoulders. "I tend to let the suitors decide that. It's a matter of whether or not they consider undressing to be part of their seduction technique."

"This is your clock. You make the rules."

She bites her lip, flushing again, but this time, he doesn't think she's nervous, and she meets his eyes when she speaks. "I don't get started until I'm naked. Once I'm touching myself with purpose."

His breath actually catches. "And how do you want me?"

"On the bed is fine. Boots off, everything else on, please."

"Sure." He stretches out, nearly melts into the mattress. Her bed is _amazing_. "I'd heard queens slept better than peasants, but I had no idea how much better." He manages to prop himself up so he can watch her. "Your turn."

She shrugs off her shirt, leaving her in a corset that makes his mouth water, the pale swell of her breasts over the material perfect. It's a good thing he's on the bed, out of arms' reach, because he's not sure he could keep from tackling her, if he were closer.

She can definitely _tell_ , too; she's watching him like his eyes on her are the best thing she's ever experienced.

"I think you should start the hour," he tells her. "You're enjoying this."

"You're probably right."

Bellamy has never really watched anyone pleasure themselves before. He's had partners who knew what they liked and weren't afraid to tell him, but just observing as Clarke touches herself is--honestly amazing. She's smart and gorgeous and knows exactly what she likes, and watching her fuck herself with her glass toy, knowing she's thinking about him? He's really glad she doesn't mind him getting himself off too, because he'd probably die of arousal if he didn't.

What's more surprising is how she tells him to say, curls against him and drifts off instantly. It takes him a lot longer, just because he can't quite stop looking at her, this unbelievable _queen_ , who's smart and headstrong and knows exactly what she wants.

And he thinks she might like him. All he has to do is give her the best sex of her life, and she's his.

He nuzzles her hair, tugs her in closer, tangling their legs together, and closes his eyes.

He's got a big day tomorrow, after all.

*

He really was planning to--follow the rules? Is that what it would be? He's not sure what the right term for it is, but he wasn't planning to wake up in the morning and ask to try to fuck her, but he really couldn't wait. If he'd gone another hour without kissing her, he might have actually died. To say nothing of how much he wanted to touch her.

He doesn't know how he forgets about the marriage part. Or, not even the marriage part, but the _royalty_ part. He knew she was a queen and she was looking for a husband, and if he actually got her off enough, she'd marry him. Which is good, because she's beautiful, and he'd really like to keep her.

But he's a fucking _tailor_. He knows he's smart and well read and opinionated, but he'd never really thought about being a king before. Or even a prince consort.

"I can hear you thinking," Clarke says, her lips brushing his collarbone as she talks. Bellamy tightens his arm around her, kisses her temple. If nothing else, he really likes her. He would have been really disappointed, if he hadn't managed to do this. "I thought you wanted to sleep."

"I did," he says. "Sleep would be awesome."

"You really don't have to marry me," she says, soft. "You wanted to see if you could do it, I get it."

"I'm pretty sure if I didn't marry you I'd regret it for the rest of my life," he says. "But it seems like a worse idea for you."

Clarke yawns and props herself on his chest, and Bellamy just kind of stares for a minute, because, shit. He remembers hearing about her when she had her coming out ball at sixteen, how she was the picture of royal beauty, what everyone imagined when they imagined a princess.

He'd also heard some earl tried to cop a feel and she slammed her heel on his foot so hard it nearly broke. She's somehow even better in person.

"I want to marry you," she says, and it makes his stomach flip. "I've never wanted to marry anyone before. So it sounds like a good idea to me."

"I could be playing you. Once you marry me, I kill you and take over your kingdom."

She yawns and settles back on his chest. "Well, even if you kill me, you won't be the actual monarch. Next in line after I die, until I have children, is my cousin Roan. Prince consorts can't rule on their own. So you'd be in a better position financially, but worse politically. And you wouldn't be as wealthy as you'd be if you left me alive, so I don't know why you'd bother. Divorce is much cleaner, and you'd still be taken care of as the former prince consort."

He laughs. "So, you're not worried about my killing you and trying a coup?"

"I think you'd lose the coup, unless you're very popular. Which I think you will be. But I also think you'll be a good ruler, so, again, why would you kill me? Much easier to just stay married to me and we can rule together."

"You've known me for less than twenty-four hours."

Clarke taps her finger against his sternum. "I know that you care about people. That's obvious from how you talk about your sister, and your friends. I know that you're intelligent and willing to speak your mind, which is good. What's the point of a stupid husband who always agrees with me? Someone who will challenge me and have his own informed perspective is much more beneficial. I suppose it's possible I'll find I don't like spending time with you after all, but I've found I can trust my first impressions of people." She grins. "And the sex is good. If nothing else, I'm looking forward to doing that a lot more."

"If I don't get you off seven times a night, are you going to throw me in the dungeon?" he asks, tilting her chin up so she he can kiss her. 

"Six," she murmurs, against his mouth.

"I could do seven if I had the whole night."

Clarke laughs, presses her mouth against his once more and then slides out of bed to pull on clothes. It's a shame to see all that skin covered up, but he supposes royals can't take days off any more than tailors can.

The thought makes him laugh, and he flops back in the bed. "Shit."

"What?"

"I have to go home and tell everyone my shop is closing because I'm marrying a queen. I don't know if my sister's going to be thrilled or furious."

"Really?"

"I'll be moving away. We've always been close."

"She can come if she'd like. I'm sure we could find something for her to do, if she'd be bored being a lady."

"Almost certainly." He slides out of bed himself, looks around for his own clothes. As appealing as it would be to never leave her bed, he really _does_ need to go home and pack up his entire life. "I'll ask her. When's the wedding?"

"A week, if I know Wells. The council has been antsy. They want me married sooner rather than later, they were trying to convince me to relax my standards. Is that enough time for you to go and come back?" She worries her lip. "You'd better come back."

He leans in to kiss her. "If I wasn't coming back, I'd just tell you I didn't want to marry you. I'm coming back. Probably with my sister, for the wedding, if nothing else."

"Good," she says. "But you have to come tell Wells with me first."

He's thrilled, which makes Bellamy feel better. He shakes Bellamy's hand and says, "I had a good feeling about you," which is, in all honesty, kind of awkward. Probably he'd rather look like a guy who's great in bed than the alternative, but--the fact that Clarke's adviser sized him up and decided he'd be able to satisfy her sexually is a little bit strange. 

"Thanks," is what he ends up saying, and he can see Clarke biting back on her laugh.

He gets a knight, Nathan Miller, to escort him home, and a horse, which he can mostly ride. Clarke gives him a kiss and tells him to come home soon, which is enough to raise a lump in his throat.

This is going to be his home. And he gets to marry her.

"How many was it?" Miller asks him, after a few hours of riding.

"Huh?"

"We had a bet going, how many times you had to get her off to win. How many?"

He swallows, feels his neck heating up. "Uh, six. She could do five, so--"

"Nice," says Miller. He pauses. "So, what are you going to tell your sister you did?"

Bellamy snorts. He likes Miller. "Beat her at cards."

"Yeah, good luck with that," he says, and Bellamy flips him a rude gesture.

But he's right, of course. Octavia spent the last few days quizzing her patrons on what they've heard about the terms of winning Clarke's hand, so when he comes in, she says, "So, you suck in bed?"

"I'm awesome in bed," he says, refusing to blush. "I'm getting married."

His sister stares at him hard. "You're kidding."

"I'm not. Are you coming, because it's in a week. You need to meet the queen. You can even live in the castle if you want."

"You're fucking with me."

"I've got a knight outside, if that'll help. And a horse."

"Bell." She wets her lips. "Did you really--seriously?"

"Seriously." He grins. "She's awesome. You're really going to like her."

"Well," she says. "This I've got to see." And then she yells, "Hey, my brother's getting married to a fucking _queen_! This round's on him!"

*

The wedding is huge and very formal and Bellamy's suit itches.

"If I'd made this suit, it wouldn't itch," he hisses to Clarke. "You're a queen, why don't you have a competent tailor?"

Clarke grins. "I'm marrying you, so I have one now." She slides her hand into his and squeezes. "Unless you've changed your mind."

If anything, the last few days have made him feel better about the whole thing. He's proved himself to be decent in council meetings, which mostly means he tries to stay quiet because he thinks he doesn't belong, but as soon as anyone says anything he thinks is stupid, he starts arguing with them, and Clarke is _delighted_ about it. Apparently being incapable of keeping his mouth shut is a good trait, in a king. Under Clarke's rule, the Arcadian castle is fairly informal, so he doesn't feel out of his depth with meals or etiquette or anything like that. Wells has been teaching him, supposedly for his own edification, but Bellamy's pretty sure Wells just wants to feel him out. Which is fine; he likes Wells.

And then there's Clarke. He knows he hasn't known her long, that he's had plenty of relationships that were good for the first week and obviously didn't last. But none of them have ever felt like this. It's not just that she's gorgeous and he's having the best sex of his life, but she's also--well, he really, really likes her. He basically wants to spend all his time with her, which doesn't really mesh with monarchy, but they still get to spend a lot of time together. 

He never even got his own room; everyone already knew they were sleeping together, so there wasn't any point. 

"No, I haven't changed my mind. I think I'm going to be a pretty great prince consort," he decides. "Except--"

"Except?"

The music starts, and he offers his arm to Clarke so they can walk into the hall. "I'm a little worried about the wedding night."

They're both grinning when the minister declares they're married, and it's hard to feel worried, with a beginning like that.


	4. Rely a Bit Too Heavily on Alcohol and Irony - Clarke POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3642375)!

"You need to do something exciting."

"This is exciting," Clarke lies, without looking up from her textbook. Her eyes are starting to cross, but she actually _does_ like what she's studying. It's interesting. _Exciting_ is, admittedly, an overstatement, but it's at least making her broadly happy, and she was pretty worried it wouldn't.

"When's the last time you did anything _fun_?" She opens her mouth to try to defend herself, but Octavia holds up her hand. "Don't even try, I know. It was over the summer, before you started school. And now it's been a month and a half and you're already a mess, so if you don't tone it down, you're going to die, and I can't afford rent alone."

Clarke smiles. "So, I'm not thinking of your needs?"

"Definitely not. I've been going to bars alone for _over a month_ , Clarke. No wingman. No backup. I have to let _Bell_ scare people off, which is bad for his development. He's supposed to be learning to respect me as an independent adult. Which does not work if he has to wingman me."

"Having a sibling sounds really complicated."

"And that's another thing!" Octavia says, ignoring her. "You've barely even talked to Bell. You guys would really get along. Probably. You might argue all the time, but you're both into that as a friendship thing, so--yeah. You have to come. I'm not taking no for an answer. Bell will give you the first drink free."

Clarke sighs, looking down at her book. She does have class tomorrow, but--she's tired, and a drink sounds nice. And--she kind of likes Octavia's brother. Not that she knows him very well, like Octavia said, but he's got a sarcastic sense of humor, a nice smile, and amazing arms. Which is part of why she hasn't been going along when Octavia says she's going to hang out with him, honestly. As an only child, she's not really an expert on sibling dynamics, but she's pretty sure she's not supposed to think Bellamy is hot. He practically raised Octavia.

"Come on," Octavia says, sounding genuine. She can tell Clarke is weakening. "I'm worried about you."

"He better give me a free drink," Clarke grumbles.

The bar where Bellamy works is only a few blocks away, and it's the kind of dive bar she likes, dark and musty, but still clean and warm. No one looks up like they're smelling blood when she and Octavia come in, and the dance floor looks fairly safe. Plus, the music isn't so loud that she could hear it from the street.

Octavia takes her arm and drags her to the bar, shoves her into the stool across from Bellamy. He looks about as she remembered him: messy black hair, tons of freckles, bright white smile. He's got a tight blue t-shirt on, and his arms are also still really great.

"You remember Clarke," Octavia says.

His smile softens a little when he looks at her, feels less fake. Ridiculously. She's definitely exhausted. She doesn't know him well enough to read his expressions. "Hi, nice to meet you again."

Her eyes dart away. "Hi." She's too tired for this, seriously. Suddenly being out and doing things feels daunting.

Maybe Octavia's right. Maybe she's working too hard.

If there's any awkwardness, Octavia bulldozes right through it. "Great! Rum and Coke for me, vodka cranberry for her, Bell."

And then she finishes her drink and leaves, which really shouldn't be a surprise, if she's honest. It's so obvious, because Clarke is way too exhausted to dance with her, and if Octavia finds anyone she wants to scare off, Clarke can still do it.

And, of course, she'll get to know Bellamy, just like Octavia wanted.

He's about like Clarke thought he would be. It's clear he's being _on_ in a way, working a kind of bartender magic that doesn't seem inherent. Maybe she's reading into things, but she got the impression he was naturally a little quieter and less outgoing. Besides, it's easy to see his different modes as the night goes on, the way he flirts with--basically everyone, honestly, or everyone who seems interested, regardless of gender, which Clarke approves of. He's cheerful and friendly with everyone, quick with his smile and jokes, but--it's not effortless. As he gets more comfortable with her over the course of the night, she can see how he relaxes and turns himself off to talk to her, and it's already one of her favorite things, making him feel comfortable.

It's that, more than anything, that keeps her coming back. It must be tiring, right? Always being on, always flirting and prodding and charming everyone. He probably needs a break, just like she does.

It's very selfless. She's not getting anything out of it at all.

*

Bellamy works two days a week, and those two days rapidly become Clarke's favorite days. She plans around not having to do homework, as much as she can, although sometimes she'll bring her textbooks to the bar with her, and Bellamy will steal them and skim through for pictures of weird medical condition. He'll give her free drinks and complain about the class he's TAing and the professor he's TAing for, and tell her stories about weird bar patrons.

He doesn't flirt with her; he tells her when other people are flirting with her. Which is considerate of him, and makes sense, because Bellamy is five years older than she is, and was Octavia's legal guardian for a while, so people who are friends with his sister probably aren't people he's interested in, romantically speaking.

But she really does like him, and no one else seems as appealing to flirt with, not when he's right there and will always happily bicker with her about books or TV or the state of the world. It's basically her favorite thing because even though they mostly agree, the conversations are still interesting, and he never hesitates to call her out on blindspots or things she hasn't considered. Octavia was right, they get on like a house on fire, even more because they both like arguing.

So, really, hookups just can't compare.

It's still mildly terrifying when she gets home on a Monday night in November and finds him on their couch. 

She knows he and Octavia hang out outside of the bar; they're siblings, of course they hang out. They get lunch once or twice a week and dinner sometimes, and Octavia will just go over to his apartment when she's bored and doesn't have anything else to do. But Bellamy doesn't tend to come to their place, not when Clarke is around. She hasn't seen him here since they moved in, and she was really not prepared.

"Hey," he says, raising his bottle of beer in greeting.

"Hey," she says, putting her bag down and flopping into the easy chair. There's plenty of room on the couch next to him, but she feels better with some space between the two of them. "What's up?"

He snorts. "I realized I had nothing to do tonight and texted Octavia because I couldn't remember the last time that happened, and she told me I was pathetic and we should celebrate with pizza. Sorry if--" He shrugs. "Am I going to cramp your style?"

Clarke relaxes instantly, because--he actually sounds _worried_. Bellamy thinks she's upset he's hanging out, and it's really cute. "Yeah, obviously. If you guys already ordered, I don't get pizza. Jerk."

His grin is sudden and bright and relieved, and Clarke really likes him so much. "Extra large, half Hawaiian, half pepper and mushroom. Octavia promised you'd eat it."

"I will eat it," she says, and nudges her foot against his. "You can come over any time, you know. I kind of like you."

He ducks his head on a smile. "Yeah? Good to know."

Honestly, Clarke is hoping it's the start of the next phase in their friendship, the phase where Bellamy hangs out for no reason and they sit on the couch together and watch Netflix and that eventually leads to the phase she's really looking forward to, which involves making out. She's not sure how to get to that stage, exactly, because, honestly, she's not good at dating. Finn had done all the work when they dated, and when no one else seemed inclined to do the work for actual relationships after that, it was easier to just have occasional hookups, when people offered.

Bellamy makes her want to try to figure out how to do the other stuff, but she doesn't know the steps. Picking up a bartender feels like it should be easy, even if he _is_ her friend's brother. But she really doesn't know what to do there. Doing it at their place would work, except it's not the new thing they do. He doesn't start stopping by with no warning, doesn't take up residence on their couch next to her. Nothing changes at all, which just throws into sharp relief how much she wants it to.

So when Octavia says he's coming out with them to celebrate the end of finals, she figures she can't miss her chance. They'll be at a club, and he won't be working. She could probably dance with him. She's not actually convinced Bellamy knows anything about dancing, but she feels surprisingly optimistic about her odds of talking him into it. And his theoretical inability to dance sounds cute.

She's so gone on him; it's sad.

First, she does shots with Octavia, and dances with her, keeping Bellamy in the periphery of her vision as he chats with his friend Miller, who seems cool, and some guy he works with named Murphy, who seems like a douche. Once Miller and Murphy go off to dance too, Clarke's figures she can get one more drink before she goes over.

That's when she sees Finn and Raven come in with Jasper.

She'd love it, if she could go say hi to Raven. She would love it if she knew how to talk to them, but she doesn't have a clue. More than that, she doesn't _want_ to see Finn. She just doesn't. It's not going to make her happy, to make peace with him, and he'll _try_. If he sees her, he'll talk to her.

Octavia's chatting with the hot bouncer, and Clarke catches her eye easily. She jerks her head toward Raven and Finn, and Octavia grimaces when she spots them, raises her eyebrows. Clarke nods toward Bellamy, and Octavia nods back, inclines her own head back to Raven, a clear sign she'll sacrifice herself so Clarke can get out.

Octavia's the _best_.

There's no reason for her to let herself settle into Bellamy's side like she belongs there, except that she's kind of drunk, and if Finn sees her, she wants him to think she's leaving with a cute boy. Which she is. Just not how she'd like to.

His arm curls around her instantly, and that gets a smile from her. She fits nicely against him. She should do this more often.

"What?" he asks, leaning in. "What happened?"

"My ex showed up."

Bellamy, being Bellamy, volunteers to take her home, leaves his arm around her as she tells him the story, which still feels stupidly humiliating. She's always prided herself on being smart and cautious, on not letting her feelings dictate her life. Finn had swept her off her feet and she'd told herself it was okay, because that's how you were supposed to be, right? And it had blown up in her face.

"I don't get cheating on someone," she admits to Bellamy, once they're back. It's mostly because she's worried if she doesn't talk, he'll leave, and she's not ready for him to go yet. "Like--even if they don't find out, how do you not just feel shitty?"

"No idea," he says. "Come on."

She follows him into the kitchen, frowning as he starts rifling through the cabinets. He comes up with mugs and Octavia's hot cocoa mix surprisingly quickly, given that their organization system is non-existent. Maybe he's just used to thinking like his sister.

"Honestly, I've been pretty shitty at dating, historically speaking," he continues.

"Yeah?"

He shrugs. "I had Octavia to look out for, and it felt like--I don't know. It felt like a lot to put on someone. Even before Mom died, I was home most nights and weekends, just because she worked so much, and I didn't want to leave O alone. It's not really conducive to relationships."

"And after that?"

"I was busy supporting myself. And, honestly, I think I wasn't ready. If been all about someone else for so long, I needed to just--" He snorts. " _Prioritize myself_ sounds like a self-help book, right?"

"A little bit," she says, smiling. "What about now?"

He's quiet while gets mugs ready, puts milk on the stove, actually heating it, instead of doing it in the microwave like he does.

"I think I could probably do it now," he admits. He flashes her a small smile. "Better late than never, right?"

"Yeah," she says. "That's what I hear."

She and Octavia order Thai and complain about Finn the next day, and Clarke swallows deliberately before she says, "Hey, um. Your brother."

"Yeah?"

"He doesn't really date."

"No."

"Do you think he would?"

Octavia rolls her eyes. "Yeah, Clarke. I think all you have to do is ask."

*

Home sucks, except that Wells is there too, on break from law school, so she gets to hang out with him, and she always loves that. She texts Octavia a lot, Raven some, and Bellamy as much as she can without feeling weird about it, which is not that much. But he always texts back, albeit in a brief, kind of endearingly Bellamy way, conversational, but grammatically correct and properly punctuated, and when she sends him an emoji, he tells her he only acknowledges ASCII-based emotions. Which he follows with a _:P_. She's in deep enough to find it really, really cute.

"So, who is it?" Wells asks, on New Year's. She asked Bellamy if he was kissing anyone, and she can't help checking her phone every two seconds, like she somehow missed the buzz of his response.

"What?" she asks, like she doesn't know.

"Who are you texting?"

"Octavia's brother."

"Huh."

"What?"

"You're blushing."

"I'm not," she says, and knows she isn't. She's not big on blushing.

"You're nervous."

"I like him," she says. She hasn't said it so directly before, not even to Octavia, but--she does, of course. It's not like she's denying it. Wells is just the first person to ask.

"Huh."

She elbows him. "Stop saying that."

"Just--it's been a while, right? Or are you just not telling me about your love life?"

"It's been a while. But--I like him a lot."

"Oh, _a lot_ ," says Wells, grinning, and her phone buzzes.

_Nah, not without my favorite patron here_ , says Bellamy, and Clarke lets herself grin like a fucking idiot.

_yeah, me neither_ , she tells him, and then, to Wells, "A whole lot."

*

"I have a date tonight," Octavia tells her. It's Thursday, and Clarke was already dressed up and ready to go to the bar. She didn't have a plan beyond going and seeing Bellamy, but--she really wanted to do that. It's been a couple weeks.

"What?" she asks.

"Second date. Lincoln. The bouncer from TonDC. You remember him, he was here on Monday."

"Oh, yeah," says Clarke. She'd hung out with him while Octavia showered; they'd talked about cartoons as an art form, and he'd been unable to take his eyes off Octavia when she came back. She was a big fan. "So, it's going well?"

"He's _awesome_. I'm definitely keeping him." She grins and pokes Clarke's shoulder. "And you should go see Bell. You're all dressed. And it's not like you actually go to hang out with me, anyway."

"I would have, the first time, but _you_ abandoned me."

"Someone's got to take care of Bell," she says. "So, you're going, right?"

She lets out a breath. "Yeah. I'm going."

He doesn't kiss her, but they talk, and he holds her hand most of the night, grins at her, looks about as happy as she feels, and he does peck her on the cheek outside her apartment.

"I would have brought you to mine, but I've got a nine o'clock class, and it already sucks just going after work. If I, uh--" He grins, embarrassed and pleased all at once. "I'm pretty sure I'd never get out of bed if you wanted to come home with me."

"Another time?" she offers, and he lets out a shaky laugh.

"Yeah, absolutely."

*

She doesn't plan on spending the next night with him. She doesn't even plan on seeing him, but she's in her afternoon lecture, and she can't stop thinking about him. She _likes him_. She's pretty sure he likes her too. And she somehow didn't secure an actual date, a time when she could go to his apartment and slide into his lap and kiss him breathless. Which was just a huge oversight on her part, because--she wants an exact time when she knows that will happen. To the minute.

She's made up her mind to call him as soon as class is over, but then Professor Wallace calls her over, asks if she has an hour to meet some people, and she somehow ends up at a fucking cocktail party, which, seriously, he could have warned her. It's the fucking worst.

By the end of the evening, she's tired and grumpy and wants a fucking hug. And a kiss. And a boyfriend.

She buys him some takeout, just to be polite, and manages to get the hug, the kiss, and the boyfriend before she passes out on his shoulder.

In the morning, she wakes up in his bed, curled around him in clothes that he loaned her. He's shirtless, which is even better than she thought it would be, and his mouth is slightly open. His hair is a disaster.

She's got such a good feeling about him.

He makes a noise and tugs her closer when she tries to move. "This is awesome," he murmurs, lips brushing her hair. "Why would you want to go? I have the best bed and no plans today." He pauses, tugs her closer. "That wasn't, like--a come on. For the record."

She laughs, leans in to kiss him. She hasn't felt so well-rested in months. "It wasn't?"

He slides his hands up her back, rucking up the t-shirt he loaned her to sleep in. "I haven't even bought you dinner yet."

"I bought you dinner last night. And you paid for that pizza in November."

"I can get laid for that?"

"I don't have plans today either," she says. His mouth is warm and stale and perfect, and his bed is her new favorite place. "I think I could--" She laughs, buries her face against his neck, stupid with excitement. It's been too long since she had someone who made her feel giddy just being near them. "I was going to say _fit you in_ , but--"

He snorts, kisses her hair. "I bet you could." He tugs his shirt off her. "I'm still buying you dinner."

"I'm not doing anything tonight."

He rolls them over so he's on top of her, kisses her again, long and deep. "It's a date," he says, and, honestly, as first dates go? She can't imagine anything better.


	5. Oh How Happy We'll Be - Bellamy POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7484889)!

Bellamy is a little worried about showing up early, given Clarke never responded to his email, but he knows she's there (because she told everyone when she was arriving) and figures she's just cleaning or swimming or doing something that doesn't involve her phone. He can't really imagine her going for long periods of time without checking her email, just because every time he has ever sent her any kind of correspondence, he's gotten a reply within about thirty seconds, but anything is possible. And she _is_ on vacation. It would be cool if she knew how to relax. He'd be really impressed.

And, if he's honest, he's really fucking excited to go to the beach, and he doesn't want to wait. It'll be a little awkward--okay, between Clarke, Octavia, and a bunch of people he barely knows, a _lot_ awkward--but he wants to see what the big deal is with the ocean. And he can't remember the last time he took a real vacation, honestly. It was long before his mother died, and even those weren't that great. They'd go camping or something, and that was worse than being at home. Camping always felt more like a punishment than a vacation. But this sounds nice.

Plus, there's Clarke. He's pretty sure he and Clarke can't actually argue for a week straight, and, if he's lucky, he might actually manage to talk to her like a person, establish that they're both going to be in Boston, and figure out some kind of peace treaty.

It's honestly embarrassing, how much he wants to be friends with Clarke Griffin. 

When he gets to the beach house, he feels even stupider about wanting to be friends with her, because the place is huge, and it's not even where her family _lives_. They have a second, spare house that they only use for a few weeks in the summer. That's how rich they are. That's how out of his league she is.

There's also no one there, although Clarke's car is outside, so she'll probably be back eventually. It's hot, but not so hot he can't hang out and wait for a while, and late enough in the day that it's getting cooler rather than warmer. And, if the car is here, they haven't gone far. 

He texts Octavia to see if he can get Clarke's number, just in case, but he's not really expecting a response. She's probably still pissed at him; she had stuff to finalize for the Peace Corps, and it started another fight about how she shouldn't go. Or--he scrubs his face.

He came out here to _not_ stress about this. He's not thinking about it. He's on vacation. He's going to relax if it kills him.

So he pulls up Two Dots and plays that instead, sitting on his bag in front of the door and hoping Clarke gets back before he gets skin cancer.

He doesn't hear them come up; he just hears Clarke say, "What the hell are you doing here?" and when he jerks up, there she is in a fucking _bikini_ , her hair damp around her shoulders, with miles of pale, perfect skin on display: the swell of her breasts over her blue top, the curves of her waist and hips going into a pair of tiny black swim shorts, her fucking _legs_.

Here's the thing about Clarke Griffin: Bellamy wouldn't say she's the most beautiful person he's ever seen in his life. If he's counting people like celebrities, whom he hasn't actually met, she might not even make the top ten list. But there isn't anyone in the world he'd rather look at than her.

Which sucks, because she hates him. 

"I was invited, remember?" he says, mild, and is rewarded with a scowl.

He also loves winding her up, which is another problem. He should really get better at life.

"I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow. Around one. I have it on my calendar," she adds, pointed, and he nearly ruins everything by smiling. Her obsessive scheduling is fucking _adorable_.

"I got finished early. I emailed you. I would have texted, but I don't have your number. I figured the email would be sufficient." He's just as pointed about that, and it makes her blush. 

"I missed it," she says, like this is somehow his fault. 

Someone else clears their throat, and he realizes, way too late, that Clarke isn't alone, and he turns his attention to the other girl, who must be Raven. She confirms it immediately, offering her hand with an amused smile. "So, I'm Raven. You must be Octavia's brother."

He shakes. "I'm hoping you know that because you know everyone else, not because Clarke complains about me," he says, looking her up and down. She's like Octavia said, gorgeous with an almost terrifyingly competent aura, like she could break him without even trying. If Clarke wasn't there, she'd probably be exactly his type, and he has the niggling feeling that she knows that. Both the his type part _and_ the Clarke part. He's kind of worried he's obvious; Octavia was way too smug about asking him to come along on this trip.

"Nope, that's definitely why," she says. "I'm gonna grab the shower first. Nice to meet you, Bellamy."

He feels awkward for a second before he remembers to apologize for showing up early, and even more awkward after that, because he still has nothing to say, and he's just standing outside with Clarke, who is _in a fucking bikini_ , and he really can't let himself look at her, because he doesn't want to be that guy. The one who's staring at the pretty girl just because she's wearing almost nothing. 

Well, and because he has a huge thing for her. But the bathing suit isn't helping.

He finally comes up with, "You cold?" Mostly in the hopes that she is, and she will be reminded of it and decide to put on real clothing, and then he'll be able to interact with her like a normal person.

Or like himself, at least. He's always pretty bad at interacting with her, honestly. But he can at least try to get back to their status quo.

She scowls again, which is a good start. "I'm fine. I don't know if you noticed, but it's pretty warm out here. And there's AC inside."

"Yeah, but I assume you can shower or something. Put on clothes," he adds, without meaning to.

Luckily, she doesn't seem to notice, and he breathes a sigh of relief once he's finally alone in his room, away from Clarke Griffin in a fucking bikini.

He still sees her when he closes his eyes, of course; he's going to be seeing that when he closes his eyes for a while. He tries not to be that person, but, jesus, her _breasts_. He knew they were nice already. He didn't need so much information about exactly how nice they are.

"I'm going to die this week," he says aloud.

Luckily, no one's around to argue the point.

*

The next morning, he's sitting on the couch doing the New York Times crossword on his iPad when Clarke bounces in to the living room. Her bikini is black with green polka dots today, and it's a fucking _string_ bikini. He can see so much of her legs. 

He's going to die in, like, three days. Tops.

"I'm going to the beach," she says. "You want to come?"

The question honestly shocks him; Raven already took off, so it would just be the two of them, and he sort of figured she'd rather go to the beach alone than have him along. But--the sky is blue, the sun is shining, and he's honestly very interested in the ocean. 

Plus, Clarke. Just the two of them. And she's dressed like that.

"Sure. Just give me a sec to get changed."

It's only June, but it's already warm, bordering on hot. The air outside smells like salt and heat, and Clarke is actually _bouncing_ as they walk towards the ocean. It's kind of adorable, in addition to being distracting, given the angle he can see down her cleavage when they're walking. He's going to have to jerk off non-stop in the shower so Lincoln won't overhear him having some very inappropriate dreams here.

"Jesus," he teases, in an attempt to get his mind out of the gutter. "You're like a little kid."

She actually smiles at him. "I love the beach."

"Did you come here every summer?"

Her smile turns wistful. "Until my dad died."

He doesn't think he winces, but he's not entirely sure. "When was that?" 

"Junior year of high school."

Bellamy's dad died when he was three, and all he really remembers is warmth and a song he used to sing in a language Bellamy still doesn't know. His mom died a lot later, and it was a relief and a tragedy all at once. 

He wouldn't wish either experience on anyone. 

He debates for a while, but finally says, "I really do--I appreciate you letting me come. It means a lot." He'd feel worse if she didn't know. He wants her to get it.

She considers for a minute. "I didn't think you'd want to, honestly."

"I was--" he starts, but he doesn't even know what to say to her. He doesn't really have the words. He can't very well say that he wanted to ask Octavia if it was really okay a thousand times, doesn't know how to tell her exactly how much he wanted to come. His crush on her was something that snuck up on him, something he hadn't even noticed for a while. At first, she'd been just another student in his class--a kind of annoying one, honestly. By the time he'd realized she had intelligence and solid arguments to back up her complaining, he'd also found out she was a friend of his sister's, but he'd never really consciously thought she was off-limits. He'd never thought about her at all, until she snapped at him especially viciously at the end of her junior year, and Octavia had ripped him a new one, because her shitty girlfriend had just broken up with her or something, and he hadn't even realized she was dating someone, but it made something heavy lodge in his stomach, the knowledge that she was with someone _else_. Someone who wasn't him.

And then she was his student again in her senior year, and then they were graduating, but they're going the _same place_ , and he still has a crush on her.

Of course he wanted to come to the beach and try to figure out how to get along with her. And that was even before Octavia was leaving.

"Yeah," he finally settles on. "I wasn't doing anything else."

At least they're close to the ocean. It'll be so easy to drown himself to escape his stupidity.

"Well, this is a pretty good thing to do," Clarke says. She's bouncing again. "Come on, up the stairs."

"Just like a little kid," he says, deliberately walking slower. He's also at little-kid levels of flirting, apparently.

Then she _grabs his hand_.

He nearly trips as she tugs him, mostly from sheer shock. His hand spasms in hers, and then he's gripping her back, holding on, and she doesn't seem to mind. It feels like a whole new world.

"Clarke," he starts, bewildered. "What are you--"

"It's the _beach_ ," she says. "Get excited."

She's holding his hand; he hasn't been this excited in years. But he has a reputation to maintain. Or--something. Mostly if he doesn't try to be aloof, he's worried he's going to say something even stupider. Like, _You're holding my hand_ or _We should make out_.

So instead, he starts, "I'll get--" but then he actually sees the ocean, and the words die.

It's like being in a picture, or on TV. It's _perfect_ , sand and waves, the sound of the surf, the blue sky and the wisps of clouds.

The beautiful girl who's grinning at him, so excited she can't keep still.

"Oh," he breathes.

"That's what I wanted," says Clarke.

"No palm trees, though," he says, without conviction. It's awesome and they both know it. "Is it warm?"

"It's not bad. It looked online, it's like 72 today, I think. We used to come later in the year, when it was warmer, but it's not bad. You can swim, right?"

He appreciates the conversation they have too. Really, he does. They're chatting and joking around and being _friendly_ , and it's great, but mostly what he knows is that she doesn't let go of him until they put their towels and shoes down on the sand, and even after that, she takes his hand _back_ to tug him into the water. 

It would be like being in high school, except hand-holding has never been a major part of any of his relationships. This has never been something he did, and now he's kind of glad. 

First time swimming in the ocean, first time holding hands for an extended period of time with a girl he likes. It's an exciting day.

Of course, five minutes later, he's knocked under a wave, spluttering, with salt water burning his nose, but Clarke is grinning, and, honestly, he doesn't even care about the pain.

Vacations are _awesome_.

*

It doesn't actually get better, once they're--dating? Hooking up? Together?

Together, probably. That sounds right.

Regardless, it doesn't actually help the bathing suit situation nearly as much as he expected, because now he doesn't have to pretend he's not staring at her, but now he also knows he's allowed to stare. That, at some point in the very near future, he's going to get to take her out of the bathing suit and touch her and--

Well, he's getting ahead of himself, but waking up with her was already kind of one of the best experiences of his life. He's still stressed and nervous about his future and worried about his sister, but when he woke up this morning, all he felt was happy. And that was new.

He's so busy letting his mind work overtime thinking that he gets taken down by another wave within about ten minutes of getting into the water, and when he resurfaces, Clarke is laughing at him.

"You suck at the beach, Bellamy."

"I can kind of see your nipples through your top," he shoots back. "How am I supposed to pay attention to the _water_?"

She looks down at herself; it's chilly enough that her nipples are a little peaked in the cold, pebbling through the thin fabric of her top. He hasn't been staring, he's just been aware. "You know you can just actually see my nipples later, right? You can do whatever you want to my nipples later."

He groans and falls back on the water, floating with his eyes closed, trying to somehow not think about that too much and think about nothing but that at the same time.

"So, we don't have to stay at the beach long, right?" he asks, letting the waves carry him. "We can go back home and--not be at the beach."

She laughs. "I thought you liked the beach."

"Oh, yeah. It's great. I'm just thinking, you know. Inside has some good stuff going on. And the beach isn't going anywhere, right?"

"The beach isn't going anywhere," Clarke agrees. "But I'm not either."

She says it like she's so _sure_ , and Bellamy's not into PDA, but he still has to right himself to kiss her, just for a second.

"Half an hour," he says. "And then I'm taking you home."

"Deal," she says, and dunks him under the water without further comment. When he comes back up, spluttering, she's grinning and he can't help tackling her right back.

He has to say, she was definitely, without question, right about the beach. It's the fucking _best_.


	6. I Can't Let You Slide Through My Hands - Bellamy POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4370933)!

When Bellamy gets assigned as Clarke Griffin's Watcher, the Head Watcher takes him aside and tells him, "I'm sure you know how inappropriate it would to become personally involved with the Slayer."

Honestly, Bellamy hates the Watchers, as an organization. A group of old white guys decided that they needed to basically tell teenage girls what to do, and then they named themselves "The Watchers," like they're a bunch of perverts hiding in the bushes; of course he hates them. If they didn't have all the books and all the knowledge, he wouldn't be one, and he's unspeakably glad that they decided to send him to help out the Slayer themselves, because if he'd had to hear much more about how they disapproved of her, he probably would have just gone rogue and tracked her down anyway.

"You mean like the fourteen Watchers throughout history who fucked their charges?" he asks. "Only about half of whom seemed to get anything like informed consent. You're probably lucky Kane didn't get more personally involved. But I guess she's already got a vampire girlfriend, so--" The Head Watcher's jaw clenches, and Bellamy folds his arms over his chest. "I'm going to do my job," he continues. "I'm not going to think with my dick. I understand why you're worried. You guys have a history of that. But if you're concerned about my ability to be her Watcher, don't send me. Otherwise, I have packing to do."

It's not like he actually has any intention of sleeping with Clarke Griffin; he's not even convinced he'll like her much, based on what he's read. But he can't help feeling sorry for her too, because she never asked to be the Slayer, and now she's got this life sentence. And it's going to be a short life, judging by precedent. 

So he doesn't think he's going to fall for her. But fuck anyone who says he can't be her friend as well as her ally. If she needs a friend, he's going to be one. He doesn't care if she's rich and privileged in the way that makes his teeth hurt for what he didn't have growning up. He doesn't care if she's dating an _actual vampire_.

She's only a year or two older than Octavia, she's constantly battling the forces of evil, and she's already died once. He's going to help her.

*

It doesn't go well at first. Clarke isn't thrilled about a new watcher, for which he doesn't really blame her, and it takes them a while to figure out how to work together. They're like cogs, grinding against each other and not lining up right, screwing up everything else in the process: Bellamy and Octavia at odds when he wants Clarke patrolling more and socializing less, Clarke and Raven at odds when Raven agrees with Bellamy that she's being too reckless.

He never gets along with Lexa, and he doesn't think it has anything to do with her being a vampire. But he doesn't think it has anything to do with Clarke either. They just don't have a thing in common, except for a mutual desire to keep Clarke alive. And Lexa thinks his is too abstract, or something.

She's wrong about that. Even when they don't get along, he likes Clarke. He likes that she doesn't back down when she thinks she's right, even if she's wrong half the time. He likes that she has her own opinions and insists on having her own life. He likes that she listens to him when he makes good arguments and calls him out when he doesn't, and he knows that once they click, they're going to be a great team.

He doesn't know exactly when he falls for her. He wasn't trying not to, but he wasn't thinking about it much either. He was focusing on his job, on keeping everyone alive and safe, but as soon as he and Clarke fall into place, he thinks it would have been impossible for him not to love her. Because she wants all the same things he wants, and they work so well together. Because when he's with her, he feels like the world is actually _savable_. Like this fight might someday be over, and they could be--something. Even if it's just friends.

He feels like he could keep her alive, and he wants to so much it hurts.

She calls him on her seventeenth birthday, in the middle of the night, and at first all she does is breathe, shaky, fucking _terrifying_.

"Clarke, what happened?" he demands, already out of bed and pulling on jeans and a shirt. "Did you call an ambulance? What was it? I thought you weren't going out tonight, are you--"

"I'm not hurt," she says, and it's such an obvious lie that he doesn't even know how to respond. "I just--I need you to come pick me up."

"Where are you?"

The address is near Lexa's, but not Lexa's, and when he gets there, he finds her sitting on the curb, hugging her legs. She's wearing a long t-shirt and nothing else, and she looks younger than he's ever seen her.

He's five years older than her; most of the time, he doesn't feel like it. Now he feels somehow too old and too young, because she's so small, but her face shows pain he can't even begin to imagine. And he hasn't had it easy either.

"Hey," he says, sitting down next to her on the curb.

"Sorry I woke you up."

"Yeah, that's really what I'm worried about." He shifts closer, tentatively offers her his arm. She looks cold and small, fragile in a way he's never seen her. He's never been as relieved as when she leans back into him, huddles in close. "What happened?"

She lets out another shuddering breath. "I broke Lexa's curse."

It takes him a minute to remember that when you're a vampire, having a soul is technically a _curse_. And then another minute to remember what the actual details of the curse were, but once he gets there, it's not hard to put together what must have happened. Clarke, on the street, mostly undressed, and Lexa back to being a regular vampire after experiencing a moment of genuine happiness.

"Shit," he says, and pulls her to her feet carefully. "Come on, let's do this somewhere else."

"Do what?"

"I don't know. O's had some bad breakups, but this might be beyond the power of Ben and Jerry's. You want to go shoot something? I bet we could find a good target."

She lets out a watery laugh as he gets her in the car, but it turns into sobs, and he just drives until she quiets down, because he doesn't know what else to do. Periodically he'll reach over and rub her back, and she seems to appreciate it.

"I know you told me so," she says, finally.

He rubs his face. "That's not what I was going to say."

"But you did."

He told her it was risky, that it was a bad idea. He told her that even if Lexa had a soul, they weren't the same. When she asked his opinion, he gave her the truth. But he's not her father or her keeper, and it's his job to help her with slaying, not with romance. And he didn't think he could give an unbiased assessment, so he tried not to give one at all. "You didn't do anything wrong, Clarke," he tells her, and it's true. "She didn't either, that's the shitty part. You both did everything right, and it went wrong. I'm never going to fault you for that, okay? Just tell me what you need, and you've got me."

"I know," she says. "I've got you." She lets out a long breath. "We have to kill her."

"We don't."

"You think she's just going to leave?" Clarke asks. "She's a vampire again. No soul, but all her memories. She knows what she meant to me. There's no way she's going to just--"

"Hey," he says, sliding his hand up to squeeze the back of her neck, gentle. "We don't have to kill her _tonight_. We'll figure it out tomorrow. Are you going home or coming with me?"

"With you," she says. "If that's okay."

"Yeah. Whatever you need."

_Personally involved_ probably isn't a strong enough word for what he is with Clarke Griffin.

*

He thinks he understands when she leaves. He doesn't like it, would have told her not to if she'd asked him, but deep down, he can't actually blame her for it. Octavia hopes she leaves because Raven's spell worked, and she and Lexa needed a break, needed to reconnect, but he thinks he knows her better. Clarke shares happiness with her friends and shoulders pain alone.

So he spends the summer she's gone just trying to keep them afloat, hoping that she'll be back when school starts. He sets up patrols with the people who are still around and know what's happening, checks in with Clarke's mother every other week, and does research on if Lexa could be saved, on what might have happened to her, if Clarke had to send her to the hell that she'd been trying to bring to Earth. 

"What if she doesn't come back?" Octavia asks. School starts in three weeks.

He rubs his face. "Then I'll find her."

"Would we even know if she--" He hears her swallow. "Indra's already here. For all we know, if something happens to Clarke, there won't be a new Slayer called. How do we know if Clarke--if she'd--"

"We don't," he says. He doesn't want to hear _if Clarke dies_ any more than O wants to say it. "But--I'll find her. Whatever happened."

"Bell--"

"It's my job, right? I'm supposed to be watching her." The words sting as he says them, because that's not why he cares about Clarke, and it's not why he'd go after her, and he's sure his sister knows it. "Anyway, I'm going to the library."

"Shocker," she mutters, but she doesn't try to stop him.

He's been trying very hard not to think about the possibility that Clarke will never come back. That some vampire or demon or whatever will find her when she's alone and mourning and realize who she is. Clarke can take care of herself. It's one of his favorite things about her.

He just likes it better when he's at her side. When they're taking care of each other.

And then, just like that, she's there, sitting down next to him and saying, "Did you remember to eat?"

He startles so hard his glasses slip off his nose, and he pushes them back on to stare at her. She's thinner, and she looks exhausted. There are pink streaks in her hair, like she dyed it, but half-heartedly.

His heart feels like it's swelled up into his throat. He doesn't know how to breathe.

"Holy fuck, you're alive, thank fucking god," he says, and pulls her into his arms just to feel her, to make sure she's solid and warm.

Then he has to actually talk to her, but that's good too. Three months out, she's still fragile, but he knows she's not broken, so they talk, and joke around, and she follows him home to have dinner on his kitchen counter, like she has a thousand times before. 

"Can I sleep here tonight?" she asks, voice soft. Octavia's giving them privacy, he thinks. He's not sure if his sister knows he's--inappropriate about Clarke, or just knows they're close. Either way, he thinks she gets that he's the person Clarke came to first, and that means something.

He has no idea what, but something.

"Yeah. But you have to go home tomorrow. Your mom is worried sick, Clarke."

"I know. I just--I can't tonight."

He can't really blame her. "You want my bed or the couch?" he asks.

"The couch. You're old. I worry about your back."

He snorts. "Always looking out for me, right?"

She looks down, and he thinks it was the wrong thing to say, but she's smiling a little.

"From now on," she says, firm. "Yeah."

*

Of the fourteen Watchers who fucked their Slayers throughout history, eleven were total assholes, from what Bellamy can tell. He's kind of an asshole, but not the kind they were, the kind who took advantage of their positions and privilege to get laid. 

He doesn't think he could ever do that, but he also doesn't know how to be a good guy about this one. How to love Clarke and not feel like he's wrong for doing it.

So he keeps on doing what he's always done, which is ignore it and try to do right by her. It doesn't matter what he wants; he's not here to find love or whatever.

He starts thinking about dating himself when Lexa gets back, because it feels inevitable, right? They're the stuff of legends, the kind of romance that books and movies are about. The vampire and the vampire slayer: the perfect tragedy.

He's the imperfect tragedy. He's the guy who gets to pick up the pieces.

Maya Vie is pretty and smart and doesn't take any shit. She's quiet at first, but once she realizes he is completely technologically inept, she starts teasing him about it, and that makes it easy to imagine dating her. For a long time, he thought his type was hot brunettes with long legs, but it turns out what he looks for most in a partner is someone who likes to tease him, whom he can tease back.

He is pointedly not thinking about how Clarke tried to get him to sign up for Twitter when he asks Maya out. Because that would be shitty. Maya is awesome, and in no way a consolation prize.

They get dinner, and about halfway through, she says, "So, you're going to be fifteen, right?"

"Uh, twenty-four," he says, confused. "But not until November."

Maya rolls her eyes. "Clarke Griffin is the Slayer, and you're her Watcher. Which will make you the fifteenth Watcher to fuck his Slayer, once you stop asking poor, innocent IT teachers out on dates so you feel like less of a gross old man."

Bellamy chokes on his water. " _What_?"

"I'm not an idiot, Bellamy," she says, but she sounds amused, not hurt. "I know I live on a Hellmouth. It wasn't hard to figure out the rest."

"Fuck," he says, rubbing his hand over his face. "I'm so sorry, I--"

"It's cool," she says. "I wouldn't want to date a high-school senior either. It's super creepy."

"Thanks." He smiles, wry. "But really, I'm sorry."

She shrugs. "If I were you, I'd be more worried about how bad the security on the Watcher server is. I wasn't totally sure about you guys, but it was so easy to hack the site and find out."

"I'll let them know," he says. "So--you said yes just to tell me I'm a bastard?"

"No, I think you're okay," Maya says, taking a sip of water. "But maybe wait until after graduation or something to become number fifteen. Just to be--less creepy."

"I know." It feels like a real dick move to say something about this on a date with another woman, but in his defense, she started it. "I'm not planning on becoming number fifteen. I'm not saying anything."

She pats his arm. "Yeah. Good luck with that."

*

For the next few months, Bellamy is a kind of nervous wreck of anxiety, primarily because he's pretty sure Clarke is hooking up with Lexa again, but it feels inappropriate to _ask_ , and even more inappropriate to offer commentary. She's around a lot less, and she's kind of moody and short with him, which he would be too, if he was dating someone he loved and couldn't have sex with. He reminds himself that it's a good thing, but he has trouble really believing it. Not because of Lexa, just--he'd be fine with it if Clarke was _happy_. But if she's not even enjoying herself, then what's the point? There are plenty of people in the world she could date and _like_ dating.

He doesn't even mean himself, honestly. She has a lot of options.

When she starts spending time with him again, late nights in the library, joking around and teasing like before, he assumes they broke up, and he doesn't know what to say about it. He's never been good at this side of things, the post-breakup comfort. It was a miracle he didn't fuck it up after Lexa lost her soul; he's not counting on doing so well again.

So instead he just keeps on doing what he always does. They're building toward a major confrontation, right on schedule, and it's easy to fall into that. He even manages to ask her about Lexa, to get her involved, and he knows her assistance is good. He still nearly gets himself killed, but he comes away with a hurt arm and bruised ribs, which is honestly fine. He's had worse.

Octavia's the one who tells him, "Clarke sent her away." 

Clarke drove them home from the hospital and lingered in the apartment for just a little too long, anxious and fretting. He finally told her to go home and get some real sleep, and she pecked him on the cheek and said he was never allowed to die.

"Who?" he asks. He's on some pretty major painkillers, and everything is shiny and strange.

"Lexa. Clarke told her to go and not come back."

"Huh."

He can hear his sister not talking. Which is a weird thing to hear, but he's high as fuck and there's this quality of silence that comes from someone _not_ talking. Deliberately. Not from just--quiet.

"She's crazy about you, Bell," she finally says. "Anyone can see it. She loves you so much."

"I know," he says. She does love him so much. He's one of her favorites.

It's enough.

"I don't think you do," Octavia says, and somewhere in the sentence, he falls asleep. When he wakes up, he has no idea how much of it actually happened.

He hopes it all did.

*

"You're going to prom."

Clarke looks amused. "You're pro-prom now?"

"When was I anti-prom?" 

"Never specifically. I just didn't think you cared."

He doesn't have a great counter-argument there, because he would not have ranked senior prom high on the list of things he cared about at any point in his life. The closest he comes to caring about it is being vaguely worried that Octavia is going with Anya, but even that he's come around on. Anya's a demon, but as demons go, she's a pretty good one. And it's probably better if the vengeance demon likes them than not.

"I have to chaperone," he finally says. "If you don't come, I'm not gonna have anyone to talk to. I'm being selfish here, Clarke." He pauses. "Besides, it's your senior prom. I hear that's a big deal."

"You didn't have a senior prom."

"So I'm getting one now."

"Chaperoning," she teases. "Standing off to the side judging everyone. With punch."

"And you, ideally," he says, and immediately regrets it. But that sounds so fucking _nice_. 

Her expression softens. "Okay, yeah. I'm going to kick this dude's ass, and then I'll come."

"Be safe," he says, and she leans up to peck him on the cheek. She's been doing that more, not just kissing him, but touching him. It's tripping him up, making him feel--well, _hopeful_. It makes him think he might get the stuff he's not supposed to want, and thinking that just makes him realize how much he wants it. He hadn't ever let himself think about being hers, but it's unbelievable how good his life would feel if he was.

"Wear something cute," he says, and she grins.

"You too."

He's still not really sure she'll show up, just because she's had such a rough year, and maybe a party isn't the way to celebrate that for her. But everyone else is there, enjoying themselves, and he's pretty sure she'd like it. He and Clarke have the same way of enjoying their jobs, which is to look at the people they love being alive and happy, and remember that's what makes it worth it.

He sniffs his punch, and it's definitely not spiked. He's just getting sappy. Octavia looks pretty and she's happy, Raven is grinning, and if Clarke was here, it would be perfect.

So that's when she shows up, all dressed up in a golden gown, hair braided in a crown around her head, looking for _him_. He couldn't not smile if his life depended on it.

_Lucky fifteen_ , he thinks, and hopes very, very hard.

*

"Are the Watchers going to be pissed?" Clarke asks the next morning. Octavia is with Anya, which would ordinarily worry him, except that it's impossible to worry about anything when Clarke is in his kitchen, wearing one of his t-shirts and hugging his waist while he makes breakfast. It is, in fact, the least worrying thing that has ever happened to him in his entire life. 

"Pretty much always," he says. He leans down to kiss her, mostly because he can. She tastes stale and a little gross, and he does not mind at all. "They can fire me if they want."

She makes a face. "I hope not. I don't want to have to scare off other Watchers until they give up."

"There's precedent for it," he says, flipping the eggs in the pan.

"What, fucking your Watcher?"

"Usually getting fucked by your Watcher. Most of them were creeps who took advantage of their position to get laid."

"You're not."

"You're eighteen and I was a teacher at your school, so--"

"You were a librarian at my school. And I never saw you as any kind of authority figure, if it helps."

He snorts. "Yeah, that makes me feel great."

She presses her lips against his shoulder. "I love you. A lot."

"Oh. Cool." He swallows. "So, yeah. They did tell me not to develop a personal relationship with you before they sent me."

"Wow. Even Kane and I had a personal relationship, and I didn't like him that much."

"I'm glad this isn't standard for you," he teases. "They're not firing me. I'm not going anywhere. Now sit down, I'm going to feed you."

"See? Why would I get another Watcher? None of the others made me breakfast _or_ let me wear their shirts after they fucked me."

"Yeah, when you put it like that," he says. He leans down to kiss her once she's sitting, and her fingers tangle in his hair, keeping him there. She doesn't graduate for three more days, but he thinks it's close enough. And it doesn't really matter if he gets fired now. She's in college next year, and he's applying to grad school at the same place, as a cover.

Mostly as a cover. He's also kind of excited about higher education. If he gets fired, he could have a real career. 

With slaying on the side.

"I love you too," he says.

"See? Not creepy at all. Give me the eggs."

"A little creepy," he corrects her, but he grabs the paper to do the crossword while she eats, and she puts her feet in his lap, and it's not really like any of the Watcher reports he read about this kind of thing.

It makes for a pretty nice story, if he does say so himself, and he's going to make sure it keeps going for as long as he can.


	7. Look Around, Look Around - Clarke POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5018047)!

It is shockingly hard to hit on Bellamy Blake.

Part of it is that Clarke doesn't really hit on people very often; she's much more used to being the pursued than being the pursuer. She tends to find out people were into her when they hit on her, and the relationships went fast and fizzled out because she didn't know anything about them, because the compatibility isn't there.

Bellamy she didn't like at all at first, until she got used to him. They have the same sense of humor, hate most of the same people, and he's smart and dedicated and a fucking high school teacher, one who really _cares_. And, of course, he's painfully hot and one time she saw him changing shirts while she was waking for Octavia and now has vivid fantasies about licking his stupid abs. Falling for him was inevitable and completely outside of her control.

But she's not good at this. Obviously, the best thing would just be asking him out; asking him out is easy and unambiguous. But she has so much trouble getting a read on him. He clearly likes her, enjoys her company and tends to spend time with her over anyone else in social settings. He's casually affectionate, doesn't mind touching her, and repays innuendo with innuendo, but it seems more reflexive than genuine. It doesn't seem like he's flirting back so much as--like that. Generally. Flirty and easy without it being personal, and the more she thinks about it, the more she feels like a fucking twelve-year-old, analyzing every single thing her crush does to try to figure out if he _likes her_ likes her.

And then she gets into Hamilton.

It has absolutely nothing to do with Bellamy, except that she has a crush on him, so it's just kind of natural for him to think of him all the time. Crushes are the worst. But she listens to Hamilton and can't help thinking about how much he'd like it, and it's definitely not _just_ the crush. He's a _history teacher_. It would be weirder if she didn't think about how much he must like it.

And then it turns out he hasn't even heard of it, and they get to spend a whole evening snuggling on his couch, listening to the musical together, and she thinks, yeah. This _has_ to be how she finally makes a move on Bellamy. It's perfect. Romantic.

"I could do, like, Hamilton-themed Valentine's card," she says.

"Valentine's is months away," says Anya. "I can't deal with months of this. It's getting worse. I'm going to murder you soon."

"Sorry," says Clarke. "I should just--ask him out, right?"

"I've been telling you. How hard to get are these tickets? Could you do that? It seems like the simplest solution."

"Impossible." She sighs. "You basically have to be--" she stops, considers. "Wait. You're a genius."

"I am," Anya agrees, without looking up from her computer. "Are you going to bankrupt yourself getting Hamilton tickets? I still expect you to pay rent."

"I'm not. I'm just going to call my mom."

"That seems extreme. I didn't think she'd approve of him. He's very poor."

"I'm not going to give her the details. But she definitely hasn't seen the show, and she's a subscriber, so I bet she has tickets. And if I ask her nicely, she might give me the tickets."

Anya considers. "Yes, you should definitely do that. I need this to have some resolution, just so you'll stop complaining to me."

"Sorry. Octavia's his sister and Raven slept with him. You're the least awkward person to talk to about this."

"And I regret that every day."

Clarke pecks her on the cheek. "I'm going to call her. Thanks for putting up with me."

Abby has the tickets and hasn't decided what day she was going, but _was_ hoping to go with Clarke. Clarke negotiates to go to two other shows later in the season with her in exchange for the Hamilton ticket, and that's it. She has two excellent Hamilton tickets for Friday, and the perfect date to win over Bellamy Blake.

Now she just has to actually ask him.

It takes her way too long to compose the text-- _What are you doing Friday_ \--given it's, honestly, the simplest text in the world. The biggest issue was not completely overthinking it, not putting way too much information into the message. She's not going to word-vomit and ask him on a date over text. She's better than that.

 _Your mom_ , he replies, and she grins and runs over to his apartment. He's definitely home, definitely doesn't have plans, and she should do this in person.

He's all fake apology when he sees her. “Sorry, I was going to tell you, but your mom thought it would be weird for you, getting a new paternal figure after the divorce, so--”

“If you were really doing my mom, she would have given these to you, not me,” she says, brandishing the tickets at him with a grin.

He blinks for a second, trying to figure out what they are, and she can tell exactly when he does from the way his eyes widen. He reaches for them and then draws back, breathes, “Holy shit."

Now or never. “So, um--Friday. Do you want to go? If we leave right after you finish classes we should have plenty of time. We can get dinner and then go to the show? Maybe get dessert after if you want." She wets her lips. "Obviously it can just be, you know--it doesn't have to be a date, but I was thinking date. If that's cool."

He shakes his head a little, like he's waking up, and breaks out in a huge grin before pulling her up in a hug, actually _twirling_ her. "You are fucking seriously my favorite person in the world,” he tells her, which--isn't _exactly_ a yes. But it's really not a no. Absolutely not a no.

Her own laugh is mostly involuntary, relief at having actually done it. “Except Octavia."

“For the next hour, you’re my number one. And all of Friday.”

“I would expect to be your favorite person on Friday,” she teases.

He leans down to press her lips against her cheek. “Maybe even Saturday, too.”

*

 **Me** : Is it cool if I date your brother?

 **Octavia** : I'm amazed it took this long  
You're dating my brother?

 **Me** : I'm taking him to Hamilton  
I'm like 90% sure he realizes it's a date

 **Octavia** : He is really oblivious  
I'll check for you  
I need to make fun of him anyway  
He's the worst at this shit

 **Me** : I knew I could count on you

*

Even with Octavia's reassurance that, yes, Bellamy said it was a date, Clarke can't help fretting. Because Bellamy isn't acting any differently. Or, he is, he's texting her Hamilton articles and being generally really excited, but he hasn't upped his flirting or anything. Maybe he just wants to see how the date goes. Maybe she's expecting too much from a first date. He doesn't have to be into her; he could be doing the date to see how he feels about her.

She stops herself from asking him if he wants to get dinner on Wednesday night, and then Thursday, just to see if he'd say yes. Which he would. They're going on a date; he's not just using her for her Hamilton tickets. He wouldn't.

So she brings a nice dress to work on Friday, changes and does her hair in the bathroom and meets him at the restaurant. He looks like he always does, slacks and a button-down, tie gone now that he's off school grounds. His hair is a tangled mess and his glasses are crooked, and she really wants him to kiss her goodnight. Or hello. Or both.

"Hey," she says. "Hope you weren't waiting long."

"Nope, I just got here." He looks her up and down, and she feels heat on her cheeks. It feels appreciative, and she's glad she put in the effort. “Is Hamilton really a dress-up kind of musical? I didn’t dress up. Do I look okay?”

“I wanted to look nice," she says. "Shut up. And you look great.”

“Cool.” He holds the door for her, and insists on paying for dinner, and his eyes are so warm she forgets her nervousness. He likes her. He definitely does. 

He even squeezes her hand when she takes it after dinner, and she almost wishes they _weren't_ going to Hamilton. Not that she doesn't want to see the show, but it's not like they're going to some crappy movie where they can sit in the back row and make out because they don't care about what's happening.

But they can probably make out after. And they _do_ get to see the show first. She can wait a few more hours to climb into Bellamy's lap and never leave it.

Plus, honestly, as soon as the music starts, it's easy to just get in the zone. Bellamy takes her hand a few times during the show, out of general enthusiasm, and sometimes they'll grin at each other out of sheer disbelief that they're really _here_ , that this is actually happening.

They're about halfway through dessert when Clarke realizes it isn't.

Or, well, it is, of course. It's not a hallucination or anything. Bellamy's happy, they had a great night, but nothing is different. He _still_ doesn't know that she asked him out, even though she explicitly said it was a date, and Octavia explicitly said it was a date. She got someone else to verify. But--she's pretty sure he still thinks this is just a friends thing, and that means she has to actually make a decision.

Which is just unfair, honestly. She asked him out once, and everything went perfectly. She shouldn't have to do it again. It was hard enough the first time.

"Seriously, I can't thank you enough, Clarke," he says, with this warm smile that makes her heart melt. She wants this so much, but he's lingering outside their building with no hint of leaning in for a kiss. He's grateful, and that's cool, but--

"You didn’t hear anything I said after Hamilton tickets, did you?” she asks, because that's got to be it. He looked kind of out of it, but--she didn't think he'd gotten _that_ distracted. But it is kind of a big deal. She should have led with the date thing.

“What?” he asks, cocking his head, frowning a little.

“When I asked you to come.”

He rubs the back of his neck, clearly confused. “Uh. I heard dinner? And--yeah, I kind of got distracted thinking about how jealous my AP kids were gonna be." He perks up, grinning. "And they are. This picture is going to--”

“Bellamy." She's trying very hard not to do something stupid. Like laugh. Or, worse, _cry_. 

“What?”

She takes a breath. “This was supposed to be a date. Octavia said she made fun of you about it and everything.”

If everything didn't suck so much, his expression would be funny. She's never seen him look so horrified. “She did,” he says, a little hoarse. “She does that a lot.”

“Of course she does.” She's not going to cry. She's not. She's an adult. “I thought it would be, you know. A nice gesture. I was afraid if I just asked you to dinner you’d think it was--I don’t know. A joke or just as friends or something. I thought I’d be really clear. And you were so psyched about Hamilton you still just--”

“Oh fuck.” 

It's so much worse than she thought. “No, I should have--”

“You really shouldn’t, I can’t believe I didn’t--I’m sorry, Clarke.”

“No, it’s fine." She swallows again, forces herself to smile at him." You’re not interested, it’s fine, I’ll just--” She makes for the door, but he catches her, hand warm and firm around her wrist.

“I didn’t say that. I didn’t notice, I’m not--Can I buy you dinner tomorrow?" he asks, and her stomach drops. "Or, tonight, I guess. Date. One hundred percent a date. Two hundred percent.”

Even now, she doesn't trust herself to look at him. He could just be--guilty. Sorry for her. He's a good guy, deep down. “Yeah?” she asks, anyway, because she wants it so much.

“Three hundred.”

Her laugh surprises her, but--he's cute, and he sounds so earnest. “Are you just going to up the percentage until I say yes?”

“Four hundred.” He squeezes her wrist, and when she turns back to him, he looks more hopeful than embarrassed. He doesn't want to have fucked this up.

“It’s a date. Again. For real this time.” But she still feels raw, and she can't handle the intensity of his look, so she adds, “You’re still just going to talk about the show half the night, right?”

“Probably. You did start it.”

Her smile feels a little dark. “My Hamilton-based Bellamy seduction plan. Didn’t work out exactly like I hoped.”

She regrets saying it immediately, and regrets it even more when he winces. “Sorry.”

She brushes her lips over his cheek, not exactly what she wanted for the end of the night, but at least they're finally on the same page. “Well, it’s still working, right?”

To her surprise, he catches her jaw and leans down to give her the kiss she wanted, and there's no hesitation on his part, so she doesn't hesitate either, kisses him back, arms around him, pressed up close. He smells like sweat and cologne and his arms are so firm and it's just-- _finally_.

She can see him smiling when he rests his forehead on hers. "Definitely." He kisses her again, softer, just for a second. "I really am--fuck, I'm so sorry. I can't believe I missed that."

"It's fine. It was a really good night. I had fun."

"Yeah, but still." He grins. "I'm a lot better on real dates. I can be charming and everything."

"I really doubt it."

"I'm going to rock your world tomorrow," he says.

"Uh huh." She's grinning. "Don't talk it up too much. My expectations are so low right now, I wouldn't raise them."

He's grinning too, and he kisses her again. "See you tomorrow, Clarke. Get pumped."

*

The next day, he shows up at her apartment at noon and asks, "So, how do you feel about lunch dates?"

"I'm not sure I've ever had one."

He holds up a brown paper bag. "Honestly, I couldn't wait for dinner."

She pulls him in by the front of his shirt, and they make out until he tells her the burgers are going to be crappy cold, and then they stretch out on the couch, eat lunch and watch TV, and it's honestly the best date of her life.

"I told you," he says. "I'm great on real dates. You should let me take you on a lot more."

"It was my idea, dumbass." She pokes her toe against his stomach. "Of course I want to go out with you more."

"Cool." He collects the lunch stuff and throws it away, comes back to trap her on the couch with a grin. "So, what are you doing tonight?"

"Getting takeout with you," she says, pulling him back down for more kissing. "Not leaving this apartment."

"No more Hamilton tickets?" he teases.

She tugs his shirt off so she can get a good long look at his abs. They're just as nice as she remembers, and even better up close. "Don't push your luck."


	8. Better to Give Than to Receive - Bellamy POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6751867)!

Bellamy's spent a while thinking of different ways to tell his roommate that he's in love with her, ranging from the obvious (telling her he's in love with her) to the stupidly complicated (trying to engineer a situation where she overhears him talking to someone else about it) to the unpractical and manipulative (dating someone else to make her jealous). None of them ever seemed like anything close to a good idea, which is why he's settled on pining and figuring he'll someday get drunk and destroy his entire life. It's not a _good_ plan, but it's a plan he's going with until he comes up with a better one.

He never considered giving her a coupon book full of sexual acts he could perform for her, and that's why he finds it so fucking confusing when she does that to him. Not that it wouldn't be confusing anyway, but--he has no idea what message Clarke is trying to send. It feels like a joke, but she doesn't really treat it like one. But she doesn't treat it like a confession either.

It's just--no big deal. Normal friend stuff.

"What is that?" Miller asks. Bellamy's looking at the coupon book again and failing at normal human conversations because--fuck, how is he supposed to deal with this? Clarke is giving him nothing, just chatting with Octavia and Lincoln and not even looking his way. If she's not nervous or laughing at him, he has no clue what she's going for. If it doesn't mean anything, why isn't she letting him in on the joke?

What the fuck _is_ the joke?

"Birthday present from Clarke," he says.

"Is it finally a confession of her undying love?"

"No, that's what I want from _you_ , Miller," he says, mostly because he's not going to tell Miller. Miller will just tell him it's a joke and she's just rolling with it to fuck with him. And he'd agree, but he _knows_ Clarke. That isn't what she's like.

None of this is what she's like. Unless she decided she just--wants to start fucking him, and even then, he figured she'd just say it.

He should just ask, but instead he bookmarks the one for a back rub and waits for the party to end. As tests go, it feels safe. He's not admitting he wants her to blow him or anything, and if she shoots him down, he'll know not to use any more.

Besides, Clarke looks _exhausted_. He might have offered her a back rub anyway. Assuming he could figure out a non-awkward way to do it.

One of those platonic back rubs. It's the big new thing with the kids today.

"So, uh, when can I start cashing in on these?" he asks her.

She doesn't even open her eyes. "When I'm conscious. You cannot possibly want to make me--" He's not sure he wants to hear the end of that sentence, so he rips out the coupon and hands it to her. She blinks at it, but she seems more surprised by which coupon it is than anything else. Like she was expecting him to ask her to fuck him right now, when she's barely conscious. "You want a back rub?" she asks, dubious.

"It never says who's giving the back rub."

That just seems to confuse her more, which is--seriously, did she think he wanted a sex slave for his birthday? Even if she wasn't his best friend, a total lack of reciprocity would be creepy. Most of his fantasies are about things he wants to do to her anyway.

"You want to use a coupon to give _me_ a back rub?" she finally asks.

"It looks like you need a back rub." He makes his voice deliberately casual. "Start small, right?"

It's enough to reassure her, which makes his heart trip. Or it might just be her relieved smile. He's _fucked_. "I'll owe you one."

"Yeah, uh, don't worry. I'm pretty sure I'm going to come out ahead."

Clarke stretches, and he can hear her back crack, which makes him wince. Part of him feels bad for even thinking about the coupons, when she's exhausted from working so hard to make sure he had a nice birthday, but--she _started_ it. He didn't ask her to give him some book of _coupons for lovers_ and destroy his brain.

"So, how do back rubs work?"

"Like, mechanically?" he asks. "I rub your back. The name is kind of a dead giveaway."

"You would be a dick even when you're supposed to be doing something nice for me," she says, but her voice is all fondness. "Where do we do it? Do I take my shirt off? I feel like if I was giving you a back rub, you'd take off your shirt."

"You just like looking at me with my shirt off," he says, grateful to slip back into familiar banter. It's their defense against awkward situations, and it usually works. "Good thing I didn't ask you to give me a back rub, since you know nothing about it."

"You could have picked one of the ones I'm good at."

He nearly chokes, but somehow doesn't. "Which are those?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Good question. You can let me know." She stretches again. "Seriously, you're the expert here, apparently. What am I doing?"

"Take off your shirt," he says, mouth dry. "Maybe on your bed? You look like you're about to pass out."

"I am, yeah," she says. "Bed works."

Bellamy hasn't given a lot massages in his life, but Clarke apparently hasn't gotten many either, so it's not like she's going to know if he fucks it up. And she has no objections to him straddling her hips in his bed, putting his hands all over her while she makes obscene noises, and when he's done, she murmurs, "Thanks, Bell. Really, I owe you. And happy birthday."

"Yeah," he says. "Thanks."

*

The problem is, he has no one to talk to about the whole thing. He doesn't know how else to ask Clarke if it's okay, because he already _has_. She gave him the book, she told him to use them, she even let him use one. He has no reason to be worried about this, but he can't help it. It feels like a trap, but that's not Clarke.

None of this is Clarke, which means the whole thing is so fucking confusing.

In the end, his job makes the decision for him. Diana Sydney is about his least favorite person, and she's his boss, which is the worst combination if all time. He hates her, and he has to deal with her, and it's really the worst. On Friday, she comes in and tells him he needs to finish a bunch of paperwork he's _never even seen_ by five, and acts like it's his fault she forgot to give it to him, instead of her fault for either forgetting or not caring enough. Or possibly deliberately trying to sabotage him. At this point, he doesn't really care; he hates her regardless of her motivations. 

He gets it done on time because he's a rock star, but he has to stay even later to finish his other stuff, on a fucking _Friday_.

The thought crosses his mind unbidden: _fuck, I need to get laid_.

And then the second thought, that he _could_. That he could just give Clarke a coupon, and she might fuck him. 

She'll either fuck him or he'll ruin their friendship forever. Either way, today is probably the day to do it. If he's having a shitty day, he might as well make it worse.

Or make it so much better.

She's on the couch with her laptop when he gets back, and he's tired enough to just say, "So, seriously, the coupon book?" 

"What about it?" she asks, as mild as ever. She doesn't even look up from her laptop, and he's grumpy enough to just pull the card out of his back pocket. He spent a while picking the right one on the bus, the one that felt--safe. He can play it off if he has to, like-- _oh, yeah, I'm so pissed at Diana, I just wanted to tell someone to blow me_. He's been texting her enraged updates throughout the day; she knows how annoyed he is.

She's clearly surprised, stares at the card for long enough he starts to get nervous, is just about to try to say--anything. The line about wanting to tell someone to blow him doesn't feel like anything anymore.

And then she asks, "Are you gonna time me?"

He lets out the breath he was holding, and suddenly it's easy, so fucking _normal_. Him and Clarke joking around about blow jobs, like they do it every day, and then suddenly he's naked and her mouth is on his dick, and it's fucking _amazing_. So close to a dream come true.

After he offers to return the favor, and it feels like a miracle that she lets him, that she's already wet and ready for him, that she was getting off on blowing him, that she loved it too.

He gets her off twice and would be happy to keep going, but Clarke tugs him off, laughing.

"I'm pretty sure that was longer than twenty minutes," she says, but her smile is fond. "You're good, Bellamy."

"You've been single for a while," he points out. "You probably need the orgasms."

"I'm still getting off plenty. Not that you aren't a huge improvement," she adds, and pecks him on the cheek. "I'm good, seriously. Thanks, though." He watches her get dressed as subtly as possible, and she doesn't seem to notice. Doesn't even seem to care that she's naked in front of him. "You feel better?"

"Yeah," he says, and it's even true. "So much better."

*

After they fool around in the bath, he makes an actual schedule, draws up a plan of how often he can do this. Clarke is apparently happy to have sex with him, and a _lot_ of sex, but it's entirely based on the coupons. Which means he only has so long before this stops and he has to either say something about it or just resign himself to sex with Clarke being a blip, this random perfect thing in his life that will wink in and wink out.

He has to make last as long as possible without making her suspicious.

"Someone is going to notice," she says, breathless. She's got her legs wrapped around his waist as he fucks her up against the wall of the bathroom at Gina's. As life choices go, he's not sure fucking his roommate (whom he's in love with) at his ex-girlfriend's bar is really a good one, but he wasn't sure where else they were going to have public sex.

And, fuck, it's so good. Her fingers are digging into his back and she's pulling him deeper with every thrust. She wants him just as much as he wants her, and that's enough until he figures out a follow-up plan.

"Half our friends already think we're fucking," he points out, kissing her shoulder so he won't kiss her mouth. 

"Yeah, but--Jesus, right there," she gasps. "Oh fuck, Bellamy."

He drops his hand to rub her clit, and that's all it takes for her to be shuddering and coming around him, whimpering against his neck.

"Fuck, who cares if they figure it out," she says, still regaining her breath. "You're the _best_."

He thinks about telling her then. He thinks about telling her all the time, because--she loves him, he knows that. And she likes sex with him. Upgrading this into a relationship should be so easy. Tipping them over the edge into something more.

But she never asks for anything, and it's all just--the stupid coupons. He's pretty sure that book is the best and worst thing that's ever happened to him. He wouldn't give it up, but--

Clarke tugs her skirt down and checks herself in the mirror. "You're so lucky I didn't get a hickey."

"That's not luck, it's skill," he says. "I know how to not give people hickeys when I don't want to."

"I wouldn't mind if you wanted to," she says. "Just nowhere _too_ obvious. We're not in high school."

It feels a little like they are, though. Just because getting laid and having no idea what it means or if it's really going to last is definitely something he associates with high-school. He thought he'd gotten better at reading signals since then, but--these are new signals for him.

It gets even more high school--in the best possible way--a couple weeks later, when they're on the couch together, watching Netflix while she doodles and he plays Dragon Age, and she says, "Okay, look, I know I don't have a coupon book, but--"

He blinks, confused. "What?"

She puts her notebook aside, tugging her knees up to her chest. She's been quiet, clearly had a bad day, but he figured that was a reason _not_ to do anything with the coupons.

Apparently he was wrong. "I had a shitty day," she admits. "Will you just--"

He doesn't even think about it; he pulls her into his arms and kisses her hair, and she melts against him. "Yeah, I--of course. What do you need?"

Her release of breath sounds relieved. "I don't know," she says. He doesn't even have a chance to make a suggestion before she adds, "Can we just make out? And go from there?" Which is great, because that's so much better than anything he would have had the guts to suggest.

"Yeah. No problem."

Before the coupon thing started, he'd thought about kissing Clarke even more than he's thought about fucking her, in part because it felt less creepy than thinking about sex. Less invasive somehow.

And, fuck it, he _likes_ kissing. He'd been hating it, not kissing her.

Clarke clearly does too, because that's all they do, just making out until she pulls away, and sleeping together, curled around each other on the couch.

It's so much better and so much worse than high school. He's losing his fucking _mind_.

*

"Okay, so, here's what happened."

Miller raises his eyebrows. "Fuck, do I need a drink?"

"Probably. Clarke gave me a book of, uh--" He rubs his face. "Sex coupons."

There's a long pause, and finally Miller says, "Good thing I wasn't drinking, I would have fucking choked. _Sex coupons_?"

"Yeah, that was my reaction. I figured it was a joke, but she wasn't really acting like it was a joke. So, uh, I took her up on it."

"You're telling me you've been fucking Clarke since your birthday and you somehow didn't tell me about it? I'm not offended, I just can't believe you managed to keep your mouth shut. I figured I'd get a fucking _I slept with Clarke_ blingee."

"If I ever start dating her, I'll send a _Clarke's into me_ blingee," he promises. "Right now, I don't know what the fuck is happening. We fuck when I give her coupons. And, uh--we made out for like two hours a couple weeks ago because she had a bad day." He puts his head down on the table. "Fuck. I don't know what to do."

"Tell her," says Miller.

Bellamy turns his head to look at him. Miller's shoulders are relaxed, his posture nonchalant. "What?"

"Dude. At some point, you just need to fucking communicate. You're crazy about her. Everyone knows it. You've apparently had a functional and rewarding sex life for months, so--yeah. Tell her. You're going to lose your mind if you don't."

"Are you being supportive right now? Is it that bad?"

"It's that bad." Miller sighs. "Dude. She's crazy about you too. And--" He pauses. "Otherwise, you're going to run out of coupons, right?"

He's been fretting about that for weeks. "Yeah, I am."

"So talk to her. And don't send me a fucking Blingee if it works out."

Bellamy grins. "I definitely will. Even if it doesn't. _She broke my heart_ : the blingee."

"Fuck you too."

*

He has three coupons left, and he's kind of--well, he knows the breast one will be fun, and he's sure she's not going to veto it. He's a little worried about the other two; the strip-tease still feels like it could be awkward, and he doesn't want to force her, and bondage feels like something she should consent to in a more definite way than just saying she was okay with all the coupons.

"Coupon," he says after dinner, and she grins. 

"Which one?"

He hands over strip tease one, and she laughs.

"Okay, full disclosure, I've never done a strip tease before. Can you get porno music on your phone?"

"You want a soundtrack?" he asks.

"It's not a striptease if there isn't a soundtrack, right? If only I had a pole."

"You wouldn't even know what to do with a stripper pole."

"I think it's pretty self-explanatory," she says. "Just kind of twirl around it, right?"

"This is gonna be really sexy, isn't it?" he asks, dry, and she _smirks_.

"I bet I can figure something out."

She stands and starts scrolling through her phone, bites her lip as she watches him on the couch. She's nervous in a way he feels like he hasn't seen for a while, and he shifts a little.

"You don't have to, Clarke," he says. "Seriously. I don't mind if--"

"Just pretend to like it," she tells him, and her phone starts playing a song he doesn't recognize.

She just moves at first, slow, like she's dancing, getting a feel for the music. She's always been a more enthusiastic than skilled with dancing, but there's something really hot about her deliberateness now, all her focus on this. Clarke's always been one of those people who puts her everything into the stuff she cares about, and there's something unbelievably sexy about that focus being on doing something for _him_.

She runs her hand up and down her sides, and then hooks them under the hem of her shirt, tugging it up and off as she keeps swaying to the music. She cups her breasts through the fabric of her bra, and he can't help saying, "Fuck, Clarke."

"I should have worn something else," she says. "Jeans aren't going to be sexy to take off."

"Yeah, they are," he says. "This is really fucking good, okay?"

"I'm barely doing anything," she says, but she undoes the button on her jeans and starts shimmying out of them. Her underwear is mismatched, but he doesn't even care.

He fucking _adores her_.

"Get over here," he says, and she blinks. 

"You don't want--"

"Clarke," he says, and she straddles his hips and kisses him wet and deep, unrestrained. The two of them working together manage to fumble his clothes off, and he finds a condom and slides it on before she sinks onto him. "This wasn't on the coupon," he manages.

"They're more like jumping off points," she says, and tugs his hand up to her breast, insistent.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous."

"You're not so bad yourself." She bites his shoulder. "God, that's so good."

"I try."

She slumps against him after they're done, and he hesitates for only a minute before he tugs her up, pulls her with him into his room. It feels like a miracle when she doesn't even comment, when she settles against his chest and goes to sleep, lips pressed against his collarbone.

He wakes up first in the morning, and that's the end of it. He can't just do this once. He wants to wake up with her every morning. He wants this so much he can't even breathe for a minute.

So, that's it. Love confession. It's that or being miserable for the rest of his life.

It's not hard to get out of bed without waking her up, and if he hadn't been sure before, the sight of her curling back into his bed, smiling a little in his sleep, would have pushed him over the edge.

He could be so fucking _happy_. He could make her so happy.

The food selection in the kitchen is pitiful, so he puts the coupon on the pillow next to her and rides his bike to the store to pick up bacon and eggs which, in retrospect, he can't even start cooking yet, because they need to be warm when she gets up. Cold bacon and eggs don't really seem like an appropriately romantic gesture.

It's probably only twenty minutes before she shows up, but it feels like twenty years. His kindle has never been less exciting.

But when she does come, she's wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else, her legs bare and her smile fond as she holds up the coupon. "You make romantic breakfasts now?" she asks.

He wets his lips. "Yeah, I'm going all out. I went and bought bacon and everything. I was hoping you wouldn't wake up while I was gone, and then I got back and was kind of disappointed you hadn't."

"You could have just gotten me."

"Yeah, but--" He can't help a huff of laughter. "It was a gesture. It doesn't work as well if I wake you up and tell you to come talk to me."

There's a second of hesitation, and then she puts the card down and climbs into his lap, hooking her arms around his neck and kissing him, no hesitation. It's warm and fond and perfect, and he tugs her close to kiss her back.

"It was a nice gesture," she murmurs, and he kisses down her neck, doesn't know how to stop. Somehow, even though they haven't said anything, he's so sure. She feels the same, and his life is awesome.

"Fuck, Clarke, I've been going crazy. I didn't--I thought you were trying to tell me something with the coupons and then you were so fucking normal about it and I couldn't figure out--"

He can feel her blushing against his shoulder. "I, um. I gave you the wrong book."

Suddenly, he's so much less sure, and he feels the press of her lips, reassuring. "What?" he manages.

"There were a bunch of different coupon books at the store, I thought they were all the same book in different colors, but, yeah. I accidentally got the couples one. I couldn't figure out why you were checking to make sure I didn't mind if you made me clean my room."

It feels like the bottom drops out of his world; he came _so close_ to fucking up. "Jesus, I can't believe I--"

The press of her mouth on his is all reassurance, and he tries to find the same confidence he had before, that she felt the same. She wanted to. She still wants to. "I would have told you if I didn't want to," she says. "You checked. A lot. I didn't know what you were checking on at first, but--I wanted it. All of it." The pause is deliberate, and her smile is warm. "I want _you_."

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Yeah."

He really was planning to do the breakfast thing, especially because this isn't even the new part, the sex. Sex is what they've been having. But it's different now, just as fun and easy, but with more kissing and laughing and the knowledge that they're going to keep doing it. And he doesn't know how to wait for that.

"You've still got tying me up left, right?" she asks, fingers trailing up his side. It doesn't seem like she can get close enough to him either. "That's it?"

"You were keeping track?" he asks.

"I went and bought another copy," she says. "I made a spreadsheet with all the ones you'd use and crossed them off as--I didn't want to not know when they ran out. I wanted to be ready."

"You made a spreadsheet?"

"I wanted to see if there was a pattern! Or if there was a particular kind you liked or--"

He kisses her. "I love you," he says, and it's not the first time, but--it's different.

A smiles blooms on her face, and it hits him hard. He made her look like that. He makes her happy. He's going to keep on making her happy for as long as he can.

"Oh," she says, settling back in.

"Yeah. Full disclosure."

"Thanks for saying something. I didn't--I don't know what I would have done when they ran out."

"Been overcome with lust for me," he says, and she pokes him. He laughs. "Yeah, you just would have had another shitty day and asked me to make out."

"Probably, yeah."

He's making the bacon and eggs when she says, "I love you too," and his throat closes up for a minute.

"Yeah?"

"Yup." She stretches in her chair, content. "So no take-backs."

"No take-backs." He pauses. "Are _you_ going to take it back if I tell you we have to send Miller some really weird pictures?"

"That's pretty much what I was expecting from this relationship," she says, grinning. "Lots of awesome sex and Miller pretending not to know us. I still love you."

He almost wants to ask her more questions, give her more potential deal-breakers, just so she'll say it more, but, well, honestly. She loves him. No take-backs.

So she'll say it plenty more.

*

Clarke's birthday is in the fall, and he spends about two weeks trying to find the perfect present for her, but none of the coupon books he can find are any good, honestly. They already did everything from _Coupons for Lovers_ , and he feels like they've advanced beyond it.

In the end, he figures it's easiest to just make his own, so that's what he does. _This coupon good for one evening where I don't complain about my job at all_. _This coupon good for one week of you not having to pretend you know how to cook and me doing ti instead_. _This coupon good for a romantic bubble bath with bonus fingering_. He even adds a few _This coupon good for one total hour of oral sex_ ones, with a space for her to write in how much of the hour is used.

She laughs when she sees it, flips through the pages with obvious delight, and there's still a part of him that can't believe it. She loves him. She's his. He gets to be this happy.

He gets to make her smile like that.

"You know, I'm pretty sure I don't need coupons for any of this."

"No, once the coupon runs out I'm never eating you out again. Sorry."

"So it's less a present for me and more a punishment for you. That's a new approach to birthdays."

"Yeah, I think it's going to catch on." He rests his chin on her shoulder. "Check the last one."

She flips to the end of the book, catches her lip between her teeth as she reads.

_This coupon good for the rest of your life_.

"Good for what for the rest of my life?"

"Anything," he says, and she turns her head to kiss him.

"I don't think I need a coupon for that either," she murmurs.

"Just in case," he says.

"Just in case," she agrees, and that one she never redeems. But she never gives it up, either. He sees it, sometimes, stuck in her wallet with her driver's license and her credit cards. It always makes her smile when she sees it, and it survives wallet changes and moving, marriage and arguments, the good times and the messy parts.

She always keeps it, and it's always good.

He's got her. The rest of their lives.


	9. The Lines on Your Page of Memories - Clarke POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4925596)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is rated M, just FYI!

Clarke was the one who delivered Ariadne, and for hours after, she wondered if her mother could have saved Marina. If Abby had been there, if she would have saved the baby and the mother. If someone else might have made different choices. Better ones. 

Bellamy came to find her once the baby was asleep, and that made her feel even worse. She should have been there for him, but her hands were shaking too much. So she let herself deal with the dead, and trusted the living to him. It's a habit she's still trying to break, seven years later.

"I'm so sorry," she said, before he could say anything.

"You don't have anything to apologize for." He put his hand on her shoulder, and the sound she made came close to a sob. "Clarke--"

"You shouldn't be comforting me right now. You're the one who--"

"I'm still pretty numb," he said, voice light. "Give it a couple days to sink in and you can come comfort me." He clears his throat. "I meant it. You don't have to apologize. It was--no one could have done better, Clarke."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do."

Three days after, Echo came to her and said, "Bellamy already knows this, but I thought you should too. In Azgeda, we have a mourning period."

Clarke nodded. "The Delphi did too, I remember. How long?"

"A year," she said. "And two more for each child."

"To wear mourning?" Clarke asked. She didn't even know what mourning looked like in Azgeda. Making Bellamy follow the custom for five years seemed--excessive. Even to honor his wife. 

"Before he marries again."

It hit her like a blow to the sternum, less the tradition itself and more that Echo was telling her this, like she thought--like she thought this was information _Clarke_ needed, as well as Bellamy.

"That's a long time for mourning," she said, voice neutral. "I didn't know there were customs for that."

"It is an old one," Echo told her. "Marriage alliances used to be more common with us, and they were--a sacrifice, in a way. If death ended the marriage, the mourning period was politeness. To allow some freedom from marriage after the death, to make sure our people weren't forced into new political alliances, when they'd already done it once. I don't agree with it," she added. "And I'm sure if Bellamy didn't respect it, no one would think it was a sign of--anything."

"But he knows," Clarke said. And if Bellamy knew, he'd take it seriously. He took everything about his marriage seriously. He wanted to do everything right.

It hadn't been about her, the Azgeda treaty. She left for a year, and that hadn't all been her fault; she had wanted to come back sooner, but she'd gotten _lost_ , ridiculously, _stupidly_ , and she spent a month hearing Wells' voice telling her _you shouldn't have slept through Earth Skills, Griffin_ before she found the Delphi, and another six months there before she talked them into letting her go back to her people.

And the first thing she'd seen was Bellamy, kissing his wife goodbye as he was about to leave, one hand on the slight swell of her stomach.

Bellamy had been the person she thought of, the whole time she was gone. She had wanted to get back to everyone, her mother, Raven, Monty, all her friends. But Bellamy--she worried about him, alone. She thought about what she'd do, when she saw him again. Sometimes she felt like her mouth would water from how much she missed him.

She nearly left when she saw him, but Miller saw her before she could do anything, and then it was all hugging and disbelief, everyone too glad she was alive to make her explain why she was gone for so long right away.

She's never been sorry she came back. But she couldn't help wondering about the world where she never left. And there was a part of her that wondered if someone else wouldn't have saved Marina, if there was some part of her that hadn't really--

But she had liked Marina. She had. And she never could have wanted to hurt Bellamy like that, to hurt Jason. To make Ariadne lose her mother before she even knew her.

Neither of them mentioned the mourning period, but Clarke knew as soon as it was over, and he didn't say anything. He's never said anything. Bellamy still hasn't married, hasn't shown any interest in it, and Clarke doesn't know how to tell him that she's wanted him, all this time. That she doesn't know how to stop wanting him, because he's--hers. He and Jason and Ari are the most important people in her universe, and she loves them with the ferocity she remembers from the first days on Earth, when all she wanted to do was keep her people safe, no matter the cost. Before time had tempered her to value peace and stability over simple survival.

It's her mother who first brings up marriage, but not how Clarke would have expected. What she says is, "We have an offer from Trikru."

Clarke and Bellamy exchange a look. "What kind of offer?" Clarke asks. They're allies. They've been allies since Bellamy leveraged the betrayal at Mount Weather to make Lexa look better in exchange for more land and rights, and it seems to have worked. Clarke still tries not to see Lexa any more than she has to, but she doesn't have to often. Things are good, as far as she knows.

"A marriage alliance," says Abby. "They want Clarke."

Bellamy stiffens next to her, and her own veins feel like they've been filled with ice. "For what?" he asks, voice cold.

"She just said," says Clarke, because she doesn't know what else to say. "It can't be you. You already got married. You're tainted by Azgeda."

"I don't think it's the worst idea," says Abby, before he can say anything. She and Marcus went to be ambassadors in Polis a few years back, so she is the expert here. "Even with Bellamy's marriage, we're fairly isolated from the rest of the clans. More intermingling would--"

"We have a perfectly good relationship with Trikru," Bellamy says, even harsher than Clarke would have expected. "We don't need to _intermingle_."

Abby sighs. "I thought it was worth considering."

"Well, it's considered," he snaps.

"Bellamy," Clarke says. "It makes sense for them to offer."

His jaw works. "Great. Good for them. Do you want to do it?"

"No," she says, because it's true. "Did you want to marry Marina? Sometimes what we want isn't--"

"That was twelve years ago," he says. "I wouldn't marry her today. We're in a different place." But the anger's gone out of him, and he just seems tired. "But it's not my decision. If you think--"

"I think we should be polite in turning them down."

His mouth twitches. "I assume Abby will be doing it, not me."

"I certainly hope so," says Abby. "I think you should think it over, Clarke. I know it sounds bad, but--" She pauses. "Bellamy, will you give us a minute?"

"Do you want me to?" he asks Clarke.

"I promise not to get married without talking to you first," she says. "Go do something more important than this."

He gives Abby one final glare, but he does leave, and Clarke turns her attention back to her mother.

"Has he said anything?" Abby asks.

"Please tell me you didn't bring me a marriage alliance because you're trying to set me up with Bellamy. That's just--too weird."

"It's a real offer. I told them I doubted you'd take it, but I agreed to pass it on." She wets her lips. "I'd like you to be happy, Clarke."

"I am happy."

"And Bellamy is--"

"Bellamy is my best friend." She sighs; her mother isn't going to just drop it. It's kind of sweet, in a profoundly unhelpful way. "He's never said anything. It's not really our top priority."

"I would think after seven years, it would have become a priority," she says, cool, and Clarke tries not to wince. Because--she thinks that, sometimes. She thinks it should have been. But more of her thinks that it gets easy, not saying anything. There were the five years of mourning, and then after, she felt strange, bringing it up, because she didn't want him to think she'd been _counting_. And then they had a hard winter, and a lot of births keeping her busy and--

It's so easy, not saying anything. It's so much easier than risking her heart.

"Maybe," she says. "But I don't want an arranged marriage. I'm happy, Mom," she adds. "I don't need anything more than this."

"At some point, you're allowed to forgive yourself," Abby finally says.

Clarke can't imagine the life she'd have if she hadn't left, or the one she'd have if Marina was alive. If she was, Clarke isn't sure she could still be here. She would have left again, because--she'd be happy for him. But she doesn't think she could have watched it for much longer.

That feels unforgivable. That she's happy only because someone else is dead. That she's happy because Bellamy got hurt so badly.

"I forgave myself," she lies. "Tell them we don't want the treaty."

*

"What did she do to try to convince you?" Bellamy asks. He's leaning against the wall outside the council room, arms crossed over his chest.

"The usual," Clarke says, easy. "I told her no, so stop worrying." She wets her lips. "Arranged marriage worked out okay for you."

"Yeah," he says. "That doesn't mean I was thrilled about it."

They haven't talked about it much, even after all this time. He told her the story in terse, clipped terms when she'd first gotten back, when he still couldn't quite look at her, because he was so angry. It was a good political decision, it helped solidify their agreement with Trikru, having a strong alliance with Azgeda. He and Marina got along well enough. He'd grown fond of her.

Clarke doesn't think he ever loved her, but she doesn't know how to ask, because it feels greedy. It feels like a selfish question.

"Like I said, I'm not."

He wets his lips. "Do you think they'll give up on it?"

"She told them she didn't think I'd do it, so I think they probably will. I doubt they're really attached to the idea."

He sighs like he's deflating, like he's only now reassured he won't have to physically fight the entire Trikru army to keep her from being taken.

"You should get to--you've given up enough for our people, Clarke."

"So have you."

"Well, I'd say no too. If they wanted me, after I was contaminated by Azgeda."

Clarke bites back on her smile, bumps her hip against his. "No wonder you're still single."

"Yeah," he agrees. "No wonder."

*

"Dad's interesting, right?" Ari asks. It's two days later, and Clarke's mother hasn't said anything more about the marriage. The Trikru delegation is leaving tomorrow, and Clarke's hoping Bellamy will feel better once they do. He still seems half-convinced that they're going to try to kidnap Clarke. She was relieved when Ari asked if she could help with anything this morning, because Bellamy at least tries to act normal in front of the kids.

"He's definitely not," Clarke teases, grinning at Bellamy.

"Thanks."

Ari ignores them, wisely. Clarke doesn't know if she feels exactly like a mother would--she tries not to let herself think about it too much--but she thinks she did a good job, helping raise them. The kids turned out well.

"Everyone _else_ did cool stuff, back when we came to the ground," she goes on. "Aunt Octavia still does. She hunts and fishes and--does everything. And all Dad does is _read_."

"Your mom did all kinds of cool stuff," she says, fair. Marina was a force to be reckoned with. "She was a great warrior. Your dad just did whatever the hell he wanted."

"Clarke," says Bellamy, with a warning in his voice. And then, "What are you even doing here?" It's a stupid question, and they both know it. She hangs out all the time. And her mother did try to get her talking to one of the Trikru warriors, so she's hiding a little. He wants her to be hiding.

"Ari's helping me make bandages."

"And Clarke knows you better than anyone," Ari says, like this is common knowledge. Which it is, but--it's still weird, hearing other people say it so easily. Clarke still feels like it should be a secret. "So she should know what you're good at."

Bellamy huffs. "I'm good at plenty of stuff. You _know_ I'm good at stuff."

Ari looks away, and Clarke realizes this is something they should be taking seriously. This is a real _thing_. She raises her eyebrows at Bellamy, and he inclines her head. "He's really good at talking all the time," she says. "How do you think he got to be the leader? It was the only way we could get him to shut up."

He sighs, all put-upon drama. "Okay, I get it. You don't want me here. You only say nice things about me when I'm not around. Where's Jason?"

It's always strange, telling Bellamy's children about their past. Clarke has known both of them for their entire lives, has helped raise them, loves them like she didn't know she could love people, loves them so much she'd do anything for them. But she feels like there's this gaping chasm of _times she hurt Bellamy_ that she can't get close to, like she's always on the verge of making them realize they shouldn't care about her.

But she'll never lie to Ari, and she wants to help, so she tells her what she wants to know, and after, she goes to Bellamy.

"Is she okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. She doesn't get to brag about you enough, I guess."

"Huh." He looks down at her, considering. "What did you tell her?"

"That we did what we had to do, and it's hard to be proud of that." She bites her lip. "You never talk about it?"

"I tell them the good stories. I tell them about their mom, so they won't forget her. I tell her--I don't know. I told them about everyone else getting high on the jobi nuts, but I kind of talk around what we did under the influence."

"You should have seen her face when I told her I didn't know you until we got to the ground. She couldn't believe we haven't known each other since birth."

"Good thing we didn't," he says. "I was too much of a wreck on the Ark."

"Don't sell yourself short. You're still a wreck." She swallows. "If you're not telling them on my account--"

"I don't want to tell them either," he says. "Not everything is about you, Clarke." 

Before she can say anything, one of the Trikru comes over. He's a handsome guy, and Bellamy bristles, stands up straight, which doesn't do much good, since even at his straightest he's a good four inches shorter than the other man. Bellamy can still be intimidating when he wants to be, but he's not that kind of intimidating.

"Clarke," says the man, with a nod of his head.

"Jarell," she says, nodding back.

"I was hoping to speak with you."

"She's busy," says Bellamy, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

"I'm not. What did you need to speak about?"

"Healing techniques."

Bellamy snorts. "Is that what you're calling it now?"

"Don't you have something to read?" she asks. "I'll come get you for dinner."

"Fine," he says. "See you in an hour."

Jarell looks amused. "He's very--protective. What does he think I'll do to you?"

"Good question," she says, and offers him a smile. It's not like it's his fault. "What help did you need?"

If he's not really a healer, he's at least educated enough to make a good show of it. He asks about their technology and how they've been able to preserve it, and it's not bad, talking to him. Clarke likes being a healer much more than she ever liked being a warrior, and she's glad to share her knowledge.

But talking to him for an hour isn't as good as being quiet with Bellamy for five minutes. 

"We could do well for each other," he says, at the end. "I understand you aren't interested in a marriage, but--it would be beneficial. It's worth considering."

"I did," she says. "It's not enough. But you're welcome to visit the clinic any time."

*

Bellamy closes the door to the kids' room, and Clarke doesn't let herself run. She could. Part of her wants to, because she knows that if she stays, everything is going to change. Bellamy is watching her, and she can hear him saying people are worth waiting for.

She can hear him saying he wouldn't have gotten married if she had been here.

"That went okay," she manages, mouth dry.

"I think so." He wets his lips, and she knows, for a certainty, that he's running through confessions in his head. She's never been so sure of anything as she is of him tonight. They've both waited long enough. "Clarke, I--"

"I don't think your Penelope thing worked that well. Who are you supposed to be? I left, but--"

"I got married," he says. "Yeah, it's not a perfect metaphor. I was trying to make it kid-appropriate." She can see his throat bob as he swallows, takes another step, close enough she can feel the heat coming off him. "Clarke."

It's too much, the way his voice is half-breaking, so she fists her hands in his shirt and pulls him to her, already greedy for him. His lips part a little, surprised, and Clarke presses closer, feeling the scrape of stubble as she kisses him. His hands settle on her hips, tugging her close, and he's kissing her back before her brain has quite caught up with what she's doing, holding her close and groaning against her mouth.

"Bellamy," she manages, and he tugs her back toward his bed. It's connected to the main room, but there is a door and she barely fumbles it closed. With two doors between them, she feels it's safe enough to kiss him with the kids in the house. "Bell."

"I would have waited forever," he says. "I thought you would too."

"Yeah." She pushes him onto the bed, climbs into his lap, kisses him again. It's so fucking good. It's _everything_. "But how stupid would that have been?"

He laughs, sliding his hands up her sides, like he wants to map her body with his fingers. "Yeah. I just--fuck. I didn't want to fuck it up. I already did once, I--"

"You never fucked it up. You never--"

"I thought maybe--I thought there was something I could have said," he says, and his voice is serious enough that she stops kissing him. "So you wouldn't leave."

"No," she admits. "I was--I was in such a bad place, Bellamy. I wouldn't have been any good for you."

"I wouldn't have minded." His smile is unsteady. "You're always good for me, Clarke." His thumb traces her side, under her breast, and she shivers. "I love you."

It's a surprise in the same way it's a surprise when Miller says they're friends unprompted; she knew, of course, would have said he did if anyone asked, but she wouldn't have expected him to say it. Not so easily. Not right now.

"I love you too," she says. "I was never going to marry some--"

"I know." He tugs her shirt off, and she lets him, kisses him again when it's done. "I wanted to punch your mom for even suggesting it."

"You always want to punch my mom."

"Yea, but not this much."

"Not this much," she agrees. And then, even though it's killing her, she adds, "We should wait."

"We waited," he says, and presses his mouth against her neck. "I haven't gotten laid in _eight years_ , Clarke."

"I'm not even going to tell you how long it's been for me," she says. "At least you were married, I was just fucked up." She tangles her fingers in his hair, kisses him again. "We should just--we should talk to--you have _kids_."

"Yeah, they don't get veto power on my life," he says, tugging her to lie in bed with him. But his face clouds over, and she knows he's worried about it now that she reminded him. "They love you, Clarke."

She slides her hand into his hair, the curls soft under her fingers. "They might not want me to be--"

"Yeah," he says. He sighs, presses his mouth against hers again, and she thinks he wanted to stop, but she whimpers under him, and he slides on top of her, presses her down and keeps kissing her, deep and wet, and she's got her hands under his shirt and is pulling it up and off before she can think better of it. His smile is crooked when he settles back with her. "If they say no, is it going to be better if I don't fuck you right now?"

Just the _words_ send a spike of heat through her, desire like she hasn't felt in years. "No," she says. "No, it's not."

He kisses her jaw, her neck, and keeps moving down. She gets her bra off while he's still moving down, and when he reaches her breast, her eyes slam shut and the sound that escapes her is frankly embarrassing.

"I thought not. No one's done this in ten years, have they?" he asks.

"No," she admits. "I've just been taking care of myself."

"I'm an idiot," he says, and takes her nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue and sucking gently, and when her hips jerk, he gets his leg between hers, giving her something to push into. "If you want to wait, tell me now, or else--"

"Please, Bellamy."

He takes his glasses off and puts them on the table, leans up to kiss her again. "All you ever had to do was ask," he says, and part of her wishes she had.

But she's been happy for all these years. They've been fine.

Some things take time.

"I don't want more kids," she tells him, before he slides into her for the first time, and he pauses at that. "I've still got--my implant should work, you don't have to stop, I just--I wanted you to--I don't want you to be disappointed."

"Two are enough of a pain," he teases, and kisses her. "I just want you, Clarke," he says, genuine, and he's lining himself up before she can reply, filling her up so fucking _perfectly_. It's been so long she had almost forgotten what it was like, how good it felt to be close to someone like this. And part of her knows it was never like this before, that it's never been so good. That it couldn't be, because he's everything.

"Fuck," she hears, and she's not even sure which of them said it. His forehead is on her shoulder as he pauses, and then he's moving, thrusting into her, and she matches his rhythm, so natural, so easy, just--

"Yeah," he murmurs, mouth on her neck, her shoulder, everywhere at once. "Clarke, fuck, I love you."

His fingers find her clit, slipping against her because she's just _so_ wet, and when she comes, it's so hard she thinks her brain stops for a minute.

When she regains her senses, he's still thrusting, hard and deseperate, and she digs her fingernails into his back and says, "Come on, Bellamy. I want to feel you."

It's all he needs, and he comes with his mouth on hers, his hips still pumping.

"Maybe we should have waited," he says, when he recovers. He's on top of her, warm and a little sticky, and Clarke would worry, except she knows exactly what he means.

"We can talk them around," she says. "If they disapprove." She kisses his shoulder. "I'm yours, Bellamy. I've always been yours."

"Yeah," he says. "I know."

It's warm and perfect and honestly the best moment of her life, so she gives herself a second to enjoy it before she tries to move. "I should go," she makes herself say. "So they don't--"

Bellamy's arms tighten, almost painful. "No," he says. "You should stay."

It doesn't sound like he means just one night. It sounds like he's talking about a long time. And, honestly, she can't disagree. She shouldn't ever leave him again.

She slides her own arms around him, squeezes back. "Fine. If you insist."

*

In the morning, he gets out of bed just after dawn so he'll be out when the kids get up, and she follows him mostly because she doesn't want to stop touching him. He smiles and shakes his head, but when he sits, he opens up his arms and lets her crawl into him. He smells like sweat and linen, and Clarke kisses his neck, murmurs, "I can definitely leave if they tell me to."

"Uh huh," he says. "I don't think I could let you."

"If it's better for them--"

"Not possible." He rests his cheek on her hair. "Get some more sleep. You look tired."

"You always think I look tired."

"You always do. We're going to work on it."

It sounds like a promise, and she closes her eyes and lets herself believe him.

When she wakes up, Bellamy is saying, "I'm probably going to ask her to marry me, pretty soon," and her heart flips. Ari is sitting on the floor, watching them with bright interest in her eyes.

Clarke loves her too, so much it feels like choking sometimes. But maybe it doesn't have to. Maybe this is allowed to work for her.

She yawns, and Bellamy's hand tightens on her hip, possessive. "You know I'm right here, right?" she asks. "Are you getting Ari's blessing?" She straightens, and gives Ari a smile. Ari is smiling too, which helps. She doesn't look upset at all. "It's okay if you don't think he should. I won't mind."

"Really?" asks Bellamy.

She shrugs. "I've never been married before. From what I can tell, I'm not missing out on much." She tangles her fingers in his and squeezes, smiles at Ari. "I might mind if I can't stay here, though." She pecks Bellamy's cheek and stands, stretching. This is probably a private conversation. She'll get in on the next one. "Right now, I need to go home, though. I don't have clothes here. I'll warn you, next time I'm staying."

Ari smiles. "It's okay. I like it when you're around."

This could be _her family_. Finally.

She kisses Ari's head. "See you guys later."

Her mother is outside, talking to Jackson, which means of course she sees Clarke, and her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. Clarke smiles at her and goes to shower and get dressed before anything else happens. She's not surprised to find her mother in her living room when she finishes, and she doesn't even try a token protest. She knew it was coming.

"You're leaving soon, right?" she asks instead. It's kind of like a protest.

"After lunch." She wets her lips. "Jarell is advising against the marriage alliance as well. So it's unanimous."

"Yeah. I'm, um--I'm spoken for," she says. "Anyway."

Abby's smile is a little smug. "I was hoping you might be. I don't know why it took him so long."

"Because we wanted to do it right," Clarke says. "It's not like he was the only one waiting."

"Then I'm happy for you." 

"You don't get credit for this," she says, a little petulant. She thinks it was as much Ari as Abby anyway; it's harder to remember why they aren't together now, when she remembers all the time they've been apart. "But thanks."

Jason and Ari show up at the clinic only a few minutes after her shift starts; Ari starts organizing the medicines alphabetically, since Clarke got them out of order, and Jason sits on the exam table, swinging his legs.

"You're moving in with us?" he asks.

"Probably, yeah. Why, do you mind?"

"It's a little small."

"I was just going to sleep in your dad's bed, so I won't take up that much space."

"Four-person families get bigger quarters," he says, and she laughs.

"You want your own room," she supplies.

"I'm too old to share with Ari."

"I don't like sharing with you either!" Ari says. "He snores."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do!"

"You _smell_ ," he says, and Clarke bites back on her smile.

"So, you guys think me and your dad should get married as soon as possible so you can get your own rooms. That's what I'm getting."

"And he's really happy," says Ari. "He was smiling all through breakfast."

"I'll see if there are any four-person residences we can get," she says. She hasn't been able to stop smiling either. "That might take a while, though. I don't know if there are any ready for new residents right now." She can't help asking, "Do you want me to wait to move in until we get a new place?"

"No!" says Ari. "You can come as soon as you want."

"Do we need to call you something different?" asks Jason. He looks a little nervous about it, and Clarke wants to hug him. She could, she realizes. He might protest a little, but--just a little. Just because he's ten and thinks he has dignity.

"Not unless you want to. All my favorite people call me Clarke anyway."

"Then, yeah," says Jason. He shrugs. "You should just move in. I don't know why you had your own place to start with."

"Totally stupid of me." She wraps her arm around Jason, kisses his curly head despite his mild protests. "Okay, good talk, get out. Go bug your dad. I have people coming in who need medical aide."

"Bye, Clarke!" says Ari, and Jason choruses, "Bye, Clarke!" and hugs her before she goes.

The seat next to Bellamy is clear at lunch, like always, but when she sits down next to him, she kisses him.

"Ari says we're moving your stuff this afternoon," he murmurs. "It's a surprise. Don't tell anyone."

"My lips are sealed. They're good? They seemed good."

"They're good." He's grinning. "What about you?"

"Perfect," she says, and leans her head on his shoulder. "Never been better."


	10. Time Enough For Rocking When We're Old - Bellamy POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5649892)!

Bellamy had a very clear image in his head of what Clarke Griffin would be like. It was the kind of name that felt easy to attach to a person: some blond guy, the type Boston is full of, one who wears pastel polo shirts and likes PBR, but only ironically. He wasn't sure about the person he thought Clarke Griffin was, wasn't confident that his response to the ad wasn't just a prank. But, honestly, if there's ever been a situation where beggars can't be choosers, it's probably craigslist marriage. Clarke was willing to pretend to take the whole thing seriously, so Bellamy is willing to meet with him in person. He can deal with mockery, if it comes to that.

He sends the text that he's here with sweaty fingers and keeps looking at his phone, primarily so he'll stop glancing around, trying to figure out if anyone is looking for him. This is--it's not a date. It's not _anything_. It's the most fucked up business meeting ever. Sort of.

"Hi, um, Bellamy?"

He looks up at the sound of the girl's voice, trying to place her. She's pretty, soft blonde hair and bright blue eyes, with a messenger bag on one shoulder. He feels awful for not recognizing her--were they in a class together, maybe?--and he's on the verge of just trying to BS it when she adds, "It's Clarke?"

And just like that, everything he'd been prepared for falls apart. Some vaguely douchey guy trolling him had been comprehensible. That had basically been what he expected, when he put up the ad. He figured it would crash and burn in some way, and he'd come up with a new life plan. Bribing Miller to marry him, probably. Begging. Lying down on the street and waiting for death. Something along those lines.

But he just can't see a girl fucking with him in the same way he could see a guy doing it. Maybe it's sexist of him, but--he's read about women meeting guys online. He can't imagine a girl walking into this situation just to fuck with him, not when _he_ could be the scammer. Not when it could be dangerous for her.

He shoots up, offers his hand, flustered and flushing, and he doesn't feel like he ever regains his equilibrium in the conversation. Because the whole time, he's waiting for the punch line, and it never comes. Clarke Griffin seems like a normal, intelligent woman who is somehow open to the idea of marrying him for a few years to help out with a custody issue, and that is just--it's too much. It's not possible that this could work. 

But she wants to meet Octavia. She's _nervous_ about it, like she doesn't realize she is suddenly the best thing that has ever happened to him. He'd been ready for his entire life to fall apart, to lose his sister, his whole sense of purpose.

"Oh, yeah, god, of course," he says, at her expectant look. He can't help an incredulous laugh. "Uh, honestly, I still can't believe you're even considering it."

"Yeah, neither can I," she says, with a small, almost shy smile. "But we can see how it goes."

"Not to pressure you, but--how soon can you come? I want to get a plan in place ASAP, and if you aren't interested I need to find another renter. Or, uh, spouse. So, you know, however long you want to give your friends to talk you out of it--"

"They can do that after I meet your sister. We don't have to put it off." She taps her jaw. "I'm free after class on Friday, around four, and I'm flexible on the weekend." She smiles again, and it's almost hypnotic, watching her. He still can't believe she's a real person. "Whenever you want me."

Maybe she's not. Maybe someone is still fucking with him. "Sunday is probably best for me. I need to check with O."

She nods. "Just text me, we'll work something out."

She leaves with another smile and a wave, and he can't help watching her go. Her friend gives him a hard, distrustful look, which he guesses he deserves, but Clarke just shakes her head and waves again, and then she's gone.

He sits at the table for a few more minutes after that, possibly in actual _shock_ , until his phone buzzes to remind him it's time to get Octavia from taekwondo. Ordinarily, she just makes her own way back, but she wanted to hear all about his humiliation in person, as soon as possible.

Somehow, telling her it went okay feels much more daunting.

Her opening gambit is, of course, "Did he throw a drink in your face?"

"Nope."

"Film you to put on YouTube?"

"Nope."

"Did he no-show? Make fun of you? Beat you up?"

"She's tentatively coming to meet you on Sunday," he says, and Octavia stops short.

"She?"

There's nothing inherently more plausible about a girl doing this than a guy. It's not like the fact that Clarke is a girl suddenly means she's a better prospect or less likely to be mocking him. But they had the same assumptions about Clarke Griffin, and he can tell O is as thrown as he was. "Yeah, I was surprised too."

There's a pause. "You're fucking with me," she finally says.

"Nope. She's a real person who is actually thinking about doing this."

"What's wrong with her?"

"I guess we'll find out." He wets his lips. "She seemed pretty normal, honestly. Twenty-two, about to graduate from college. She's an art therapist."

"What's that?"

"I don't know. I'll google it so we have something to talk about."

O makes a face. "Seriously, why's she doing this? There has to be a catch."

"Her family has some issues too, I guess." He runs his hand through his hair. "It's probably not--there's no way she's really going to do it, right? We can just pretend she will. For a little while."

"You want her to?"

"It would really help us out, O. If she actually agrees, I might be able to keep you."

"And then what?" she demands.

"What do you mean?"

"You're seriously going to marry some random girl from the internet? Come on, Bell. She's probably a serial killer."

"That's what she said about me."

He watches her out of the corner of his eye, sees the way her jaw sets, stubborn and petulant all at once. She'd never supported the whole marriage idea, and Bellamy hadn't really worried about it, because the entire thing seemed so implausible. He didn't think he'd need to deal with Octavia's feelings on his craigslist marriage, any more than he thought he'd have to deal with his own.

"She was cool," he says, before she can object further. "I liked her."

"So ask her out on a date," says O. "When's the last time you went on a date? Because if you get married, you're never going to go on another date again."

"Yeah, that's kind of the point of marriage." He rubs his face. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal? You're talking about getting _married_ , Bell. That's a huge deal! You can't just pretend it's--getting a roommate. And you shouldn't do it just for me."

He swallows, hard. "I don't mind."

"You should mind," she snaps.

"She's cute, okay?"

"Like that's supposed to make it better? She's probably planning to rip you off! Or just--I don't know. It's bad enough you have to take care of me--"

"I want to take care of you," he says. "If I didn't, I'd just put you in foster care. It's not like I don't have options, okay?"

"You've never had options," she mutters, and there's a part of him that knows it's true. Letting his sister go feels like ripping his whole heart into pieces.

So he slings his arm around her, tugs her in against his side. "Well, if you think she's scamming us, you can let me know on Sunday. But, honestly, I don't think I could do much better, for a wife. It's not like I'm much of a catch."

"You're such a dork, Bell," she says, and that seems like a good sign they can figure it out later.

*

In a way, Bellamy is grateful for the strange pace of their marriage, like easing his way into hot water so he can grow accustomed to it. First, they get married, and he has time to get used to the ring on his finger, to Clarke's things starting to fill up his room. He gets used to coming home and finding her on the couch with Octavia, her feet propped up on the coffee table, her laptop in her lap, looking like she's always been there.

Really, he needs the most time to deal with how much he _doesn't_ need to get used to that. The more at home she seems, the warmer his chest gets.

It's been a long time since he felt like he had a real family, since even before his mother died. And it freaks him out a little, that he finds it so easy to think of her as--not his wife. He's pretty sure this isn't how he'd feel about a real wife.

His ally. His friend. Just-- _his_.

And he's aware, in a distant way, that she's an attractive woman. She's not really his usual type, shorter and curvier, paler, but she's still pretty. He figures it's not a big deal. He knows plenty of attractive women. More attractive women than her, even.

Yeah, he's not really fooling himself here. 

"She's going to be in my bed," he tells Miller, during a lull at the bar.

"I hear that's how marriage works," Miller agrees. "Dude, you're not ten. You can share a bed with someone without accidentally humping her."

Bellamy sighs. "She hasn't even moved in yet, and I'm already worried I'm going to screw it up and scare her off. So--that's good."

"She'd probably rather fuck you than not have sex for, what, three years? Right?"

"It's not about that."

"So you're just telling yourself she's not the hottest girl you've ever met? As a defense mechanism?"

"She isn't." It's true, but it's also not really about _hotness_. That would be easier.

"Uh huh. When does she move in?"

He closes his eyes and leans back. "Tomorrow. When does she start conning me, do you think? There's no way a cool, normal girl decided she wants to help me out of the goodness of her heart."

"These are the things you should have worried about before you married her."

"I did. But--fuck, if it works--"

"If it works, you fucking owe me," says Miller. "This was my idea in the first place."

"So if it doesn't, you pick up the pieces, right?"

"She divorces you and screws you over, I marry you. That's the deal."

"Awesome."

He'd like to say he takes advantage of his last day alone in his bed, but all he really does is jerk off while he has the chance to do it here instead of in the shower, and then fail to sleep very well because he's stressed. Which just annoys him more, because it's not like Clarke doesn't know what she's getting into. It's not like she hasn't seemed--good. They get along. She likes him. As soon as she's actually _here_ , he'll feel better. Because it's easy, being around Clarke.

And it's true, right up until they're going to bed, and it's suddenly the most awkward thing in his entire life.

Clarke is looking at the bed like she's doing math about how much room she can take up, and he's having trouble looking at _anything_. 

They're adults. "This is doable.

"So, um, I usually sleep in boxers," he finally says, because it's true, and he wants to take his jeans off. "Is that cool? I can do, uh, shirt and pajama pants, if you want. Or, you know. A full suit of armor. Whatever you're comfortable with."

The verbal diarrhea at least seems to amuse her. "You have a full suit of armor?" she asks.

"No, just a couple pieces I bought in high-school, before I realized I should save all my money. I tried to sell them on eBay but I never got a good enough offer that it was worth it. So I could do bracers and greaves."

Clarke is smiling now, really smiling. So mission accomplished. "Well, I'm just gonna wear a night shirt. You can do whatever you want."

"Okay, cool," he says, and pulls off his shirt. Someone has to get started on sleeping, and it's his bed. He should be making Clarke feel comfortable. 

By taking off his clothes.

Marriage is weird.

He takes his time folding his jeans before he puts them in the laundry basket, which is obviously--beyond incoherent. But he doesn't want Clarke to think he's watching her get undressed, so he putters around, making up excuses to not get in the bed until he hears her climb in first.

It's still awkward.

"Okay," he says, when both of them are definitely not sleeping. At least she can't see he's blushing. "Ground rules."

"Ground rules?"

"We're both going to move in the night," he says. He can practically feel her trying to keep still. The effort she's putting in is palpable. "We might touch each other. I'll probably fart or something. I don't think I snore?"

"Me neither. But I kind of toss and turn when I'm trying to get to sleep."

"Okay." He pauses, but he wants her to relax, and he's pretty sure laughing at him relaxes her. "Sometimes my dick is hard when I wake up."

Her voice is dry as sand. "I had no idea that happened because I've never slept with a guy in my entire life and had no sex ed and no male friends who complain about how inconvenient erections are."

"Cool," he says, just as serious. "I'm glad I get to educate you. Anything else?"

"Not yet, but I haven't gotten a lot of chances to share beds. So I'll probably just fuck it up."

"Good, I'm glad we had this talk." He settles in, and he can hear her doing it too. It's a big bed, and he never _has_ to touch her. He's pretty sure, at least. "Night, Clarke," he says.

She sounds--good. Content. "Night, Bellamy."

It's weird, maybe, that he actually sleeps _better_ , once she's in the bed with him. They have no contact, and he's a little paranoid about it, the first week or so. He rolls around sometimes, but some part of him is aware that he shouldn't touch her, even in his sleep. And he kind of likes--knowing where she is.

Octavia's the first person to call him on it, probably because Miller sometimes sees him with his forehead on the bar in horror, so he doesn't feel the need to rub it in.

"You like her," she says. They're on their way back from her graduation dinner, and he's torn between being happy Clarke is getting some time alone with her friends and feeling kind of resentful that he's not with her.

So he's not really in the mood.

"Of course I like her. She's cool. You like her too."

"Don't pretend you don't know what I mean. I don't--" She huffs. "How is you marrying a girl you like even worse than you marrying one you don't?"

"Is it?" he asks. "Since when?"

"She doesn't like you," Octavia says, and she sounds so sure about it that it's almost physically painful. It's not like he really thinks anything is going to happen. He has a mild crush on Clarke, because she lives in his house, she's helping out with Octavia, and now that it's getting hot, she wears tank tops basically all the time, so it would be really hard for him to _not_ have a mild thing for her.

It's not like he set up this whole scheme to get a real wife. It's just--unavoidable for now. He'll get over it.

"I know," he says, and once Octavia's in bed, he has a beer, jerks off without thinking of anything, and falls into his very empty bed. Without his wife.

Who doesn't like him. 

When he wakes up the next morning, he's not entirely sure where he is. It's dark enough he's sure his alarm hasn't gone off yet, but something woke him.

Another second, and he realizes that Clarke's leg is between his, right against his dick, and he freezes. Clarke's _wrapped around him_ , her nose pressed into his neck, her arm slung over his chest, and she's fast asleep.

His right arm is free, so he grabs his phone off the nightstand, checks to see how long he has before he has to wake up, andt's both a relief and a disappointment to see the alarm will go off in under ten minutes. He'd feel bad indulging in this for too long, but all he really wants to do is lie in bed with Clarke, basking in the feeling of her totally liking him. She wanted to _cuddle_.

The alarm goes off way too soon, and Clarke makes a face against his neck and holds on tighter. He lets himself kiss her hair, squeeze her, and then extricates himself without actually waking her up.

The memory of her distracts him for the rest of the day, through his horrible shift at the grocery store, his afternoon seminar, and then his shift at the bar. It's not a struggle to keep his hands to himself, but he really wouldn't mind if this was the start of the part of their relationship where they snuggle at night. And then ideally make out.

But Clarke's already asleep when he gets back from the bar, curled onto her side of the bed, her back to where he's going to sleep. For a minute, he lets himself think about sliding in behind her, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. But the body language is pretty unsubtle, a very definite signal that last night was a one-time thing, and she doesn't want it to happen again.

He tugs off his shirt, kicks off his jeans, and slides into his side of the bed. 

No big deal.

*

It's pretty easy to get into the groove of being married. Or, at least, being married in the way that he is. He's not getting laid, and he's trying to set Miller up with Clarke's cute coworker so he'll be around more and Clarke put more effort into looking like she's in love with him, but that's--well, that's how marriage is for him, apparently. It's not like being in a relationship, but he feels kind of good at it. Clarke slots easily into his life, and she feels like a _partner_ in a way he didn't expect.

He's probably falling in love with her, but he can ignore that, and it probably won't last. 

Plus, it has the added advantage of keeping him from getting interested in anyone else, which he only realizes when a girl at the bar starts hitting on him.

It's far from the first time it's happened, but it's the first time he's noticed it in a while. Part of that was just his being stressed and busy, between the custody thing and the marriage thing. He didn't really have the brain power to dedicate to thinking about whether or not cute girls were trying to hit on him, and he only found out when Miller or Gina told him after. Which did good work toward convincing Gina he was serious about his wife, and bad work toward convincing Miller of the same.

This one is exactly his type, dark hair and eyes, sharp smile, completely unsubtle about what she wants, and he realizes with a horrified lurch that he's _relieved_ that all he has to do is prop his chin on his hand, and she notices the wedding ring.

It would be a pain, to turn her down, and even more of a pain to _want_ to sleep with her. Not that--he and Clarke probably don't have to be _celibate_ , but they should definitely be discreet. And he doesn't even want to be discreet. He just doesn't want.

"So, are you married, or are you just one of those guys who doesn't know what finger to wear a ring on?" the girl asks.

"Married," he says.

"Young."

He shrugs. "Extenuating circumstances."

She perks up at that, and he realizes it might have been the wrong thing to say. "I love extenuating circumstances."

"Not these," he says. "It involves a lot of parental death and some child custody. I'm--" He has to swallow. "I'm really lucky it worked out for me. I didn't think I'd get so lucky."

Her smile softens. "That's sweet."

"Sorry," he says. "I try not to get my sappiness on the bar."

"Well, I did ask. And it's cool, that you found someone. I can't even imagine being married right now."

"I couldn't either. But now I can't imagine anything else," he admits, and finds both things are true.

It's actually his last bar shift for a while; he's got his student teaching position starting up in a week, and he's miraculously in a stable enough place to ditch all his other jobs in favor of prep and fretting about how he will definitely fuck up a bunch of teenagers. He's still on call for holidays and pickup shifts, since he likes his coworkers and extra money, but it mostly feels like the new stage of his life is finally falling completely into place, like he's going to be the person he wanted to be.

He's happier than he thought he would be, when he imagined this. If his mother was alive, he'd be fretting about whether or not his sister was eating enough, if Aurora had some new boyfriend who was going to be a dick and steal their money or hit them.

Now he knows Octavia is safe, she's taken care of, he's got a good job, and they have Clarke.

It's so good.

She's already in bed when he gets back, sitting on top of the sheets with her laptop in her over-sized t-shirt, bare legs stretched out. It's easy to imagine himself leaning in to kiss her hello, like they do in public, but he refrains.

She doesn't like him like that.

"Hey," she says, smiling up at him. "How was your last day? Did Miller cry?"

He gets undressed himself and settles down next to her on the bed. "Miller cries every time I leave him."

"Yeah, that sounds right."

"It's not like I'm really leaving. I already said I'd cover for Gina in a couple weeks. It's a brief hiatus at best."

She shakes her head. "I'd worry you're taking on too much shit, but honestly, I'm not convinced you know what to do with yourself when you're not working five jobs."

"Video games."

"Oh, right." She pokes his leg with her toe. "Seriously, are you good?"

The question is easy. "Yeah. I'm great."

*

He's been avoiding talking to Octavia about the adoption more than he has to, mostly because he worries she'll take it as an opening to tell him that he fucked up marrying Clarke and she'll never love him. Which, honestly, he's not even convinced is true, most days. Not that he thinks she wants him now, but--it doesn't feel out of the realm of possibility. It's not how he would have chosen to meet someone, but--if he'd just passed Clarke on the street, he wouldn't have given her a second glance. If she'd come into the bar, he probably wouldn't have even flirted with her.

He never would have known what he was missing.

Anyway, he doesn't want to discuss it with his sister, regardless. Either he will, eventually, hook up with his wife, or he won't, and either way, he's sure he made the right decision. And he thinks Octavia has come around to that too.

But if she hasn't, and is going to tell her social worker he shouldn't adopt her, he needs to find that out now, instead of being surprised in court. He'd like to be prepared for her attempting to destroy his entire life.

Clarke's busy for the whole day the Saturday after they get their court date, doing some special work thing and then getting drinks with Raven while Wells is out of town, so he figures that's as good a time as any to talk to his sister in private. It's pretty strange for the two of them to have a full day on their own, now that he thinks about it. Not necessarily because Clarke is around, but because either he or Octavia usually has something else to do. They're a busy family.

"So, the court date," he says, and Octavia glances at him.

"What about it?"

"Do we need to talk about it?"

She cocks her head, considering. But she sounds genuinely curious when she asks, "Which part?"

"All of it?" he swallows, realizes he's never actually asked this, not even before the entire fake-marriage scheme, and he's still so afraid of the answer. "You want me to adopt you?"

"Oh," she says. She pauses, and when it comes, her response is slow. Careful. "I still wish you didn't have to. But--I don't want to go live with some foster family. I want to stay with you. And Clarke is cool. It's not like--it could be a lot worse. She's not scamming us and I know she makes you happy. I like her too," she adds, quickly. "But--yeah." Her smile turns sly. "This whole thing really should have blown up in your face, Bell."

"It still could," he says, but he can't stop smiling.

He's already in bed when Clarke gets home, a little unsteady on her feet, staggering through the door with less coordination than he's ever seen. In his experience, Clarke is an enthusiastic but mostly social drinker, and he's never actually seen her quite this wasted.

"Wow, you're drunk," he teases, fond.

"Shut up," she mutters, and his mouth goes dry as she tugs off her shirt and unhooks her bra. They've been married for five months and so far, they've both been careful to keep their wardrobe PG-13. He always gets dressed in the bathroom, after he showers, and Clarke does too. He's seen her in just her underwear a few times, and he's fairly comfortable being shirtless around her, but they are very careful about not being naked around each other, and the sight of her topless is not something he'd been prepared for. Not outside of a couple embarrassingly vivid dream.

If Clarke realizes she's giving him a spectacular view of her equally spectacular breasts, she shows no sign of it; she's just frowning at the dresser, as if she's not sure how she ended up in this state. It would be cute, if he could stop staring at her. He really didn't need to _know_ this. He was better off without all these details.

She finally finds her shirt and tugs it on, kicks off her jeans and practically throws herself into the bed, wrapping herself around him with unrestrained enthusiasm. It's adorable enough he (almost) forgets that he was trying not to drool a second ago. 

"You're right, you're completely sober," he says, trying not to grin. She's practically nuzzling his neck. "I can't believe I couldn't tell."

She props her chin on his shoulder. "What are you reading?"

"Textbook review for Monday. Everything okay?"

"Everything is _awesome_ ," she says, with way too much feeling. "We're gonna have a _kid_."

He frowns. "Is this a, uh--I guess _virgin_ birth isn't the right word, but I'm pretty sure I'm not the dad."

She huffs, like _he's_ the one who isn't making sense right now. "I meant Octavia."

"I think we already have Octavia." The book is clearly not happening, so he marks his place and stops pretending he's not giving Clarke his full attention. "Seriously, what happened? Why are you so drunk?"

"If we adopt her, she's _ours_. We're married, I'm adopting her too. Are you sure you're okay with that?"

He nearly laughs, but she sounds so earnest. "Am I okay with that? Clarke, she's been mine forever, of course I'm--"

She presses closer to him, her voice soft. "If something happened to you, I'd get her. Or if--you're giving me _your sister_. She's going to be my responsibility too. Do you get that? You barely even know me."

This time, he can't help laughing, but it's all happy surprise. He doesn't even know how it's _possible_ , that she's a part of his life. That she's somehow worried _he's_ not getting what he wants out of this. "Jesus," he says, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. "I know you, Clarke. And, yeah, I trust you with Octavia. Of course I trust you. You're smart and you love her and you're always taking care of her."

She seems to be thinking it over, and finally asks, "Why?"

He smiles, rests her cheek against her hair. "That doesn't really follow from anything I said. I'm not sure what you're asking me."

"Why did you pick me? You didn't know me when you married me."

"Yeah, it was kind of reckless," he says. "But--I had a good feeling about you. You weren't scared of Octavia, and you're--I dunno. I got the impression that you wouldn't give up on something once you committed to it."

"I don't," she agrees.

"But if you want out, you should tell me," he makes himself say. "I get it if you're--"

He's not sure she's even aware that she's holding him tighter. "I don't want out. I just wanted to get drunk and freak out."

"Mission accomplished." He kisses the top of her head. "Do you need water or food or something?"

"No. Stay here."

Like he'd be anywhere else. "You know you don't have to be drunk to do this, right?" he asks her, soft.

"Do what?"

He wets his lips, looks at the ceiling. She probably won't even remember this, in the morning. It's the most cowardly way to do this, but it's all he's prepared for right now. "Touch me," he says.

There's a pause, and then she says "I didn't know that," like it's information she's planning to use.

He doesn't have a good follow-up, so he just keeps a hold on her as he settles them in to sleep."Okay, well, uh," he starts, and loses his nerve, goes with, "I'm looking forward to how hungover you'll be in the morning." She doesn't reply, which is probably good. "Goodnight, Clarke."

She curls closer. "Night."

It takes him a while to drift off, too aware of his desire to savor this. Her hair is getting in his mouth, his arm is falling asleep under her, and he's definitely getting awkwardly turned on, but--he doesn't want to miss a second.

Despite his problems drifting off, he wakes up before Clarke does, and he spends a few minutes wondering if he should stay. She probably wouldn't mind. She might even be happy. This is her second time deciding she wants to cuddle with him when she's drunk. It's a pretty good indication she wants to do it sober, too.

His need to go to the bathroom makes the decision for him, and he doesn't have the guts to get back in bed with her once he's done. He showers and makes coffee and waits for her to come down, and when she doesn't mention it, he doesn't either. It's easier at night, and in the light of day, he just--he can't risk it.

But things do change. When Octavia isn't home, Clarke will curl into his side while they watch Netflix, or put her feet on his lap while he studies or grades. She holds his hand when they're out together, leans into his side, and it feels like--

It feels like a nice pace, honestly. Like they're going somewhere. 

He's expecting the holidays to be their next big stepping stone, and he's right, but not for the reasons he expects. They have a nice, quiet Thanksgiving, and he spends most of December agonizing over a Christmas present for her, trying to figure out what level of intimacy he should go for, given she is his wife, his crush, and probably his best friend, at this point. It's not a relationship he feels familiar with; the whole thing is beyond uncharted territory.

In the end, he gets her a blender, so she can stop buy smoothies for breakfast and start making them herself, and a Lifetime movie about the dangers of meeting people online, on the grounds that he assumes she'll get a kick out of it. He's still a bundle of nerves on Christmas Eve, as nervous about what she got him as what he got her, and Octavia is disappointed in how pathetic a fight he puts up in Smash Brothers even before Clarke disappears to take a call from her mom.

"Your life is sad, Bell," she tells him, and he groans.

"I know."

But he wakes up on Christmas morning with his wife in his arms, his nose in her hair, and it's hard to feel anything but profound gratitude for his entire existence.

'Tis the season, or something.

Octavia has never been able to sleep past six a.m. on Christmas Day, so he's not shocked to find her already on the couch when he goes down to start coffee, playing his old Gameboy in her pajamas.

"Hey, Merry Christmas," he says. 

"Merry Christmas," she says. She worries her lip. "Is Clarke okay?"

"Yeah, I think so. It went well, she's just--stressed. She might go down for New Year's."

Octavia still looks anxious, and he's about to ask what's wrong when she takes a deep breath and says, "My Christmas present for you sucks."

"Yeah, I wasn't expecting anything good. You're a bad shopper, and I give you like no allowance."

"Shut up. That's why I'm saying this, okay? This is your good present." She meets his eyes, fierce. "I told you she didn't like you. Clarke. And I was wrong, okay? She does." Her courage apparently fails her, and she looks away. "She's--she's really good for you. And I think she's in love with you."

His heart stops for a second, and he doesn't know what he'd say even if he could speak. It's not like he was feeling dejected and hopeless; he really thought he had a chance.

He just hadn't expected his sister to ever agree, Or to tell him, even if she did.

His frozen unresponsiveness is apparently response enough, because O huffs and rolls her eyes. "You're pathetic. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," he finally manages. And then, "Thanks."

*

Intellectually, Bellamy knows it is stupid on every conceivable level to be jealous of some girl hitting on Clarke at the bar. He doesn't even really think Clarke is going to respond, can't believe she'd--would it be cheating on him? It doesn't feel like cheating. It's definitely nothing she'd do without asking him, and she doesn't even look like she's responding. He's not sure she's noticed.

But he's so fucking annoyed that this woman is just--hitting on Clarke. Like it's so _easy_. She wouldn't have been married for eight months and still unable to do something as basic as leaning across the bar and kissing her wife.

He's still just as glad when Clarke follows him to pick up Octavia, and even gladder when she calls him out for being a total idiot. There's a fondness in her eyes as she watches him, and he knows he _is_ a dumbass.

He needs to get his fucking act together, honestly. But somehow, he doesn't think he's actually screwing anything up. Not yet, anyway.

The girl is still at the bar when he gets back to work, and she raises her eyebrows at him, assessing. Maybe she's wondering what Clarke sees in him, or if she really sees anything at all. On his worst days, that's what he wonders.

"I hope everything's okay," she says, cool.

"Yeah, I think so. Clarke volunteered to stay with my sister, though, so she won't be back. Sorry. We're prioritizing getting paid, so that's me."

"Of course. You're very lucky to have her to help out."

There's an air of vague condescension to the statement, but Bellamy can't help remembering that, yes, he is _unbelievably fucking lucky_. On a level that's actually staggering. 

"You have no idea," he says. "Need another round?"

He wasn't expecting Clarke to be awake when he got back--she often isn't, and he's honestly amazed _he_ makes it to the end of his pickup shifts, so he can't blame her for not making it either. But he's a little amused to see she's fallen asleep fully dressed on the bed, with a book on her chest, like she was trying really hard to make it until he got home.

He takes the book from her and marks her place, strips down to his boxers before trying to decide what to do with her. He could just try to get her jeans off himself, but it feels creepy, and she's really good at sleeping. She'd probably be more pissed if he undressed her than if he just got her up to do it herself. 

"Hey, wake up," he says, shaking her gently. Her smile as he comes into focus is slow and warm, and he's incapable of not returning it. "I'm pretty sure you don't want to sleep in your jeans," he teases gently, hoping to break the moment. The whole night has felt heavy, and he feels like it's his job to fix it, because he's the one being weird.

Clarke is still smiling, but she's not saying anything, just watching him, and he belatedly realizes he's still leaning down, still has his hand on her shoulder. So much for making it less weird.

"Hi," she says, before he can pull back, and then she reaches for him, slides her hand behind his neck and tugs him down.

It's so unexpected that he nearly falls, but he catches himself, gets his act together and lets her guide him. Her fingers tangle in the hair at the base of his neck, and when he kisses her, she makes a soft, content noise that's probably the best thing he's ever heard.

It's not like it's their first kiss, not even close. She's kissed him enough that he knows the feel of her mouth, but it's still fucking _magical_ , because there's no one here.

She's kissing him because she wants to, and tugging him closer as he kisses her back. This is just for them. This is what she wants.

"How drunk are you?" he can't help asking, and she laughs. He bites his lip on his smile, barely resists kissing her again. "What? You were drinking." She does have a history of being more affectionate under the influence of alcohol, but he's getting less nervous by the second.

"It's been two hours," she says. Her fingers toy with his hair, making him shiver. "And I wasn't even that drunk when I left. And you gave me all my drinks. You know exactly how much I've had."

He lets his own hand stray into her hair, pushing it behind her ear. "Okay, yeah." He wets his lips, has to ask. He has to know. "Just--are you sure? I can't just--"

She doesn't answer, but she pulls him back, kisses him like it's all she wants to do for the rest of her life. It's nothing she'd ever do to him if she was just looking for one night of fun, and he lets himself melt into it, lets himself enjoy what he's been dreaming about for months. 

"Seriously, I need verbal confirmation, Clarke," he manages, tearing himself away with an effort. She's grinning as hard as he is, and he rests his forehead against hers, sappy and stupid with it. "We have a kid. The divorce would be messy."

"The kid is sixteen and I'd give you full custody." She pauses, huffs and says, "She overheard me telling my mom I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

It's way more than he expected, and it must show on his face, because she rolls her eyes and tugs him closer.

"Seriously," she says. "I'm so in love with you. It's a classic fake-marriage failure," she adds, thankfully, before he can do something stupid like ask her to repeat it. She _loves him_. His entire life is a miracle "You've seen rom coms. You should know."

"Thank fucking god," he breathes, and kisses her again, hot and wet, unrestrained. She loves him too. He has absolutely nothing to worry about.

"You haven't said anything yet," she gasps, as he moves his mouth down her throat. 

"I can't even believe you're real," he admits. "I thought I was just--my whole life was over. And then you showed up and you were so fucking perfect."

"I'm not even your type."

He looks up at her in total confusion. "What?"

"Octavia said--"

It's fucking surreal, to remember. She's not his type, in the historical sense, but it's laughable now. He can't believe he ever tried to tell himself she wasn't the best thing in the universe. "Octavia was being a brat," he tells her. "She thought you just wanted to marry me for my body, once I convinced her you weren't doing it for my money."

"You don't have any money."

"Yeah, that's how I convinced her." He leans in for another kiss, greedy now that he's not worried he'll scare her off. "I guess she's right that most of my girlfriends look more like Raven," he admits, mock-serious. "But you look just like my wife, so--"

Her laugh is bright and clear. "I do, huh?What are the odds?"

"I was shocked," he says, and lets his hand drop down to the fly of her jeans. "Seriously, you don't want to sleep in all these clothes," he murmurs. 

"No, I'm really overdressed." She pushes him gently, and he rolls off so she can kick off the jeans. Her legs are nothing new, but he still can't help running his hand up her thigh, marveling at his ability to touch her. She leans in to kiss him quickly. "Before I get too attached to doing anything particular tonight, do we have condoms?"

"Shit, I don't know if they're still good," he admits. It's been a while since he needed them. He thought it would be a lot longer.

She bites her lip and derails his entire brain by pulling off her shirt. "Are you clean?"

"Yeah," he manages. "I haven't had sex since last time I got tested, so definitely." He reaches over to grope her. "And we can have fun without--"

She tugs his hand inside her bra so it's on her actual breast, and he groans at the feeling of her nipple hardening under his palm. "I'm clean too, and I'm on birth control. So--what do you want to do?"

He unhooks the bra and gets it off so he can touch her without anything getting in the way. "Anything. Everything. Jesus, Clarke. I love you."

It hadn't really occurred to him that he hadn't said it yet, primarily because _of course_ he loves her. It would feel too soon, except they've been married for the better part of a year, and he sees her every day, and he fucking adores her. He's so sure. And _too soon_ really has no meaning in their relationship because, again, they're _married_.

And she looks so fucking pleased at his admission, lighting up like the sun, that he can't help kissing her again.

"That's very romantic," she says, unable to keep her tone even a little serious. Her hand slides into his boxers, curls around his dick, and he moans against her neck. "But I kind of want you to fuck me into the mattress."

His breath comes out shaky. "Well, that's pretty romantic too," he says. "I think we could make it work."

*

The weird thing about falling in love with someone you're already married to is that by the time you sort out being in love with them, you've breezed past most of the normal relationship milestones. Marriage is the ultimate escalation, and he did that with Clarke before he'd even admitted that he wanted to make out with her, so he missed out on a lot other things. 

It's not fair to say that their relationship is a _letdown_ , because, in all honesty, it is amazing, and he's never been as happy in his entire life as he is now. But he's in the honeymoon phase eight months after what would have been their honeymoon, and he can really only be fucking _ecstatic_ at Octavia and Miller, because everyone else he knows thinks his marriage is real, and therefore doesn't realize what a huge deal it is that Clarke loves him. They already thought Clarke loved him. Which was cool in its own way, but he doesn't really know what to do to convey how happy he is, aside from kissing her a lot, telling her he loves her, and having a ton of sex. 

None of which he's complaining about. But he also kind of wants to--marry her. Which is a weird thing to want, when you're already married. 

She's the one who brings it up. Indirectly.

"My mom still wants to meet you," she tells him in February. "I think she kind of thinks I'm making you up."

"Really?"

"Maybe not making you up. But--getting back at her or something."

"Weren't you, kind of?"

"If she didn't want me to get married to some guy on the internet, she shouldn't have disowned me."

"Life hack." He kisses her hair. "Did you want me to meet her?"

"I guess."

He snorts. "You're not really blowing me away with your enthusiasm here."

She curls into his chest. "Is it weird that I don't really care? I love her, but--she doesn't feel like a part of my life like you do. And I don't want her to be an asshole, which she might be. I don't really know what she's going to do with you."

He wants to say he brings it up to be helpful, but it's honestly harder for him to _not_ bring it up. "Would it help if we had a wedding she could come to?" She cocks her head at him, and he feels himself flush. "She was sad she missed out, right? And it might convince her."

"Yeah." She shifts so she's straddling his hips, but it's more affectionate than sexy. She mostly seems to want to be able to look him in the eye. "Do you want another wedding?"

"It's stupid," he says.

"What, weddings?"

"No." He clears his throat. "I want to marry you when I mean it."

She leans down, kisses him soft and sweet, smiling against his mouth. "That's not stupid, Bellamy."

"We're already married, so--"

"So let's do it again," she says, tangling their fingers together. "Once more with feeling. I bet my mom will even pay for it."

"Yeah?"

"She likes using money to relieve her guilt."

"Cool." He squeezes her hand, kisses her again. "Want me to get down on one knee this time?"

"No," she says, settling in against him. "I like you just where you are."


	11. Believe Me, There's a Better Frankenstein For You To Bride - Bellamy POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7371334)!

In general, Bellamy actually kind of gets along with his clients, which was not something he was expecting. He got into contracting because he needed money and knew the work, and he was already a known quantity for many of the locals, so it wasn't hard to build a reputation. It's a good job he can take pride in, and that he saw coming. But he thought all of his clients would be condescending nightmares, and it's not true, for the most part. Of course, there are some assholes, but not nearly as may as he expected, and the rest are basically fine. He can chat with them and find common ground, and even if he doesn't want to get drinks with them at the end of the day or anything, they're for the most part pleasant company.

And then, Clarke Griffin happens.

On paper, she's one of his most worrying clients, because _relationship counselor_ is probably an important job, sure, but where Bellamy's from, that kind of therapy is a luxury. His mother never had time for relationship counseling; she just left when it got bad. That's how it is for everyone he knows. And Clarke is young too, probably around his age, and getting married. Which, obviously, it's not like Bellamy is against people his age or marriage, but they both tend to be extenuating circumstances. He doesn't need to relate to his older clients, and it's easier to maintain professional distance. People his age--especially rich ones--tend to remind him that he didn't go to college, and he's worked his whole life. And anyone who comes here to get married tends to have a lot of strong opinions on how their life is going to go. He lives in a storybook town, and everyone knows how they want that story to go.

And, of course, she's a relationship counselor on top of that, so she'll probably be an especially bad bride-to-be. She seems like the type.

The initial meeting doesn't do much to reassure him. Clarke and her fiance are polite enough, and the discussion of what they're looking for in a home goes well. It's just that they're both so stiff it feels like he's talking to planks, and the house is so--dull. It has about as much personality as Clarke's neutral being pantsuit, and while that means it'll be an easy job, it's just not very exciting.

The only upside he can see to it is that they won't have to be that involved, and it's true of Finn. 

Clarke, though. Clarke is different.

She shows up for the first day of work with a box of coffee and donuts, dressed in t-shirt with Pokemon on it and a pair of worn jeans, her hair in a messy ponytail, and he honestly has to wonder if he's hallucinating.

"Hey," she says. "I was in the neighborhood."

"Why?" he asks. "Don't get me wrong, it's a nice neighborhood, but there's not a lot to do."

"I'm moving here, I should probably start getting the hang of it. And I do have clients out here. It's part of why we're moving here. It's not just a love of stuffy, predominantly white neighborhoods."

It's pretty early for all that information. He accepts a cup of coffee from her and asks, "Clients?"

She rolls her eyes. "It might shock you to hear this, but a lot of people who live on the Cape are rich, discontented people who want to pay me to tell them why they're unfaithful in their marriages."

He chokes, which seems to please her. "I guess I'm most surprised they care. From what I can tell from TV, infidelity is kind of a given with rich white people."

"A lot of them don't. But some of them do. And a few appointments out here a week gives me enough money to do what I want the rest of the time."

"Which you definitely couldn't otherwise," he says, without thinking. He's too off-balance; this is going to end badly. Probably he'll get fired. This might be a test.

But Clarke just inclines her head. "Okay, it lets me do what I want without my mom pressuring me about not being a better visible rich person. Better?"

"So how does being here figure into that?"

"I'm just kind of curious about the whole house-building process. I'm here every few days anyway, so I figure I might as well stop by, right? I've never seen a house being built."

"It's not really that interesting at this point," he says. "You probably don't want to be involved until the house is actually up."

"I know how interior decorating works. I'm more curious about mechanics here. How does it actually go together? My construction experience is limited to the barn-raising scene in _Witness_."

Maybe he's still asleep. "The what in what?"

"It's this eighties movie about Harrison Ford having to go live with the Amish to investigate a crime. They make a barn." She waves her hand. "Not actually important. Do you mind if I hang out?"

"It's your house. You can do basically whatever you want."

"Okay, assume my secret question is: will it cause any problems if I'm here? Or bug you. If the answer to either of those is yes, just tell me, and I'll take off. You're the expert, I'm just the money."

Bellamy surprises himself first by both believing she'll leave and not wanting her to. He's in more of a supervisory position during the construction phase, and company isn't the worst thing. And Clarke is at least interesting, so far.

"If you bring coffee, you can do whatever you want," he says, and hopes he won't regret it.

*

Over the next few months, he learns a lot about Clarke Griffin. They don't really talk about themselves, not really; everything is fairly focused on the job at hand. But things about her spill through, and it's a problem, because--Clarke is _awesome_. She seems to have a genuine passion for helping people with their relationship issues, and she even runs a website which supplements her income and lets her help people who have problems and can't afford her, which he really appreciates. And it's a good site, one he's actually seen links to before. It's easy to recognize her in the answers, the blunt practicality combined with a genuine sympathy that works well for her. She owns her privilege in ways that are both responsible and helpful, using examples from her own life while acknowledging that not everyone is just able to leave a bad situation.

Which is honestly kind of the worst part, because he doesn't know her, but he thinks she's not in a great situation, and she should get out of it.

"Her fiance is just, like--fuck. He's just nothing. She's smart and cool and interesting and he's like a cardboard cutout that's waiting to be replaced with a real person," he complains, knowing that it is, honestly, a terrible idea.

Miller and Gina look at each other like they're trying to play rock-paper-scissors entirely with their minds to decide who has to deal with him. Miller either loses or gives up, depending on how good their telepathy actually is. "Dude," he says. "You don't really know him that well. Clarke's cool, yeah. But she hangs out a lot. Her fiance is barely around."

"And when he is, he has the personality of a piece of toast."

"It's not like you guys have heart-to-hearts."

"Every time he has any opinion on the house, it's to make it more boring and generic. He doesn't want to marry Clarke, he wants to marry a girl like Clarke, and she's the one who said yes."

"So, do you know where they're getting married? Are you going to wait until the wedding to object or what?" Miller asks. "What's your plan here? I don't want to be involved."

"Shut up," he says. "It's her life, it just--it sucks. She's out of her stupid rich-girl life in so many ways, but she's marrying this boring guy and going for this boring house and--shut up." His head thunks down on the bar. "I know."

"How long to the wedding?" Gina asks, sympathetic. "Is she getting married before you finish the house, or after?"

"We'll finish around the same time."

"So at least you don't have to see her after the wedding," Gina says, bright.

"Yeah, uh, about that," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "She asked if there were any good bars around and I told her she should come here, so she's probably going to start showing up."

"Wow," says Gina.

"So, you're all-in on bad decisions, huh?" asks Miller.

"Basically always. She's cool," he protests. "I don't care if she dates me. I just think she can do better than him."

"If you do a _Graduate_ thing at her wedding, you're on your own," says Miller. "Leave me out of it."

"I'll just just write into her advice column. _Dear Hermione, Your fiance is a boring waste, you can do better._ "

"Perfect. Not creepy at all." Gina rubs his hair, affectionate. "You sure know how to pick them."

He gives her a halfhearted smile. "Is it too late for me to salvage our relationship?"

"Way too late."

He sighs. "I figured. Just give me another beer."

*

Clarke is living in town by a month before the wedding, which means she's a regular enough sight at the new house that Bellamy doesn't question why, specifically, she's around. The closer they get to the event, the less she talks about it, which he's hoping is a sign of cold feet she's going to listen to. If she wants to channel her anxiety into the house, Bellamy is all for it. He's here to help.

So when she shows up at eleven, later than her usual but not worryingly so, he doesn't even acknowledge her. He's doing measurements in the downstairs bathroom, and he doesn't want to lose his numbers.

"I broke up with Finn," she announces, and he slips and hits his elbow on the wall.

"Ow, fuck. Warn a guy." He extricates himself so he can get a look at her; she's sitting on the sink with her hands in her lap, her gaze distant and blank. There's no room for him next to her, so he just leans against the wall. "Why?" he asks.

"You didn't have to stop working."

"You came in and told me you broke up with your fiance. I'm not sure what else you were expecting."

"I just didn't want to be alone."

"Clarke," he says, and she smiles a little.

"Apparently I'm his second fiance."

"Seriously? Jesus, what am I doing wrong? I'm single and _he_ has two fiances?"

She snorts. "This is why I came to you. This is the kind of sympathy I was looking for."

"Oh, right," he says. He had honestly forgotten he was supposed to be sympathetic. It sucks that Finn hurt her, and he'd love to punch the guy, but--she could do so much better. "Sorry."

That gets her actually laughing, really laughing, and his heart flips over. "You're so bad at this," she says, fond.

"Which was apparently what you were looking for. How did you find out?"

"He was here for the weekend, leaving this morning. I wanted to check the weather before I got going, and I grabbed my phone instead of his. Saw all these texts between him and another woman."

"Fuck him," Bellamy says.

"Yeah, that's one of the things I'm giving up," she says. "But the sentiment is appreciated."

"I'm really sorry," he says. It's true, because she's got to be hurting, and he _is_ sorry about that. "What do you need?"

"I'm just going to hang out, if that's okay."

"It's your house. I keep telling you, I'm not going to kick you out." He worries his lip. "Just tell me what I can do."

"Act normal," she says, grinning. "This nice thing is weird. Be the dick you long to be, Bellamy."

"Get the fuck off the sink, I need to do shit," he says, instantly, and his heart flips again when she laughs.

He really is a dick.

*

She follows him around as he works for a while, mostly remaining quiet, and Bellamy narrates what he's doing as usual, keeping up the illusion of normalcy until Clarke broaches the subject of Finn again. As far as he's concerned, his job right now is to be her friend, because for whatever reason, he's the person she came to with this. 

Which is how he ends up on her hotel room floor doing shots.

"So is this when we talk shit about your ex?" he asks, with, admittedly, some excitement. "Because I thought you were too good for him."

"You don't even like me that much." There's a teasing glint in her eye that reassures him she doesn't mean it, so he doesn't embarrass himself with protestations. 

"Yeah, so imagine how much I must not have liked him."

She smiles and then turns her attention to the alcohol, fixing them actual drinks before settling across from him on the floor. He sips his drink, watching her, letting her make the first move. He's all for trash-talking Finn, but she probably needs to get it started.

"I couldn't come up with a good reason not to trust him. Logically. There wasn't anything."

"Trust isn't really about logic," he remarks.

"I know." Her mouth twitches. "Relationship counselor who can't take her own advice. Total cliche."

He's been thinking it for months, but he'll also admit to having some bias of his own. "I wasn't gonna say it," he says. He gives it a beat and then adds, "I'm seriously questioning your life choices, but I was already doing that, so it's not new."

"It's a really good system. It's really hard to just--do it."

"Four kinds of trust, right?" He's been thinking about it since she said it. It's--he likes it, a lot more than he expected to. It's easy. Not that other things aren't important, but the idea of everything coming down to trust feels good to him. Maybe just because that's what he thinks he is, at his best. He's not always a good guy, not always perfect, but--he thinks he's the kind of person people can count on.

"Money, family, body, heart," Clarke agrees.

"And that's it?"

"I know it doesn't sound like a lot," she says, which is the opposite of what he was thinking. A lot of relationship advice feels like simplification; hers feels like the bare bones, and that's different. "But--that's everything. That's it."

"And you think you could just marry someone and get that?"

"Not just _anyone_ ," she says. Which at least reassures him she's not going to pull some guy off the street. "Just someone--someone like you."

Luckily he wasn't drinking, or he'd choke. "Someone like me?" he asks, keeping his voice even with an effort.

She doesn't seem to think this is in any way a noteworthy statement. "Yeah. You're smart and responsible and honest. That's a good basis for trust."

"And I guess you're already trusting me with your money. Sort of. You stopped making me tell you every time I got something for the house."

"Exactly."

The conversation lulls, and he doesn't know what to says, so he finally settles on, "So am I gonna get a ring, or is this it for the proposal? You could at least get down on one knee."

It's supposed to be a reminder of how ridiculous the whole thing is. Once she realizes she's implying that she'd _marry him_. Or, not him, but someone _like_ him. And it looks like it's going to work for a minute, until she squints at him, contemplative, and asks, "Well, would you?"

And the problem is, he _would_. He thinks it's a shitty idea, he doesn't actually think it could work, and he thinks she wouldn't be asking if she wasn't freaking out about the dissolution of her own relationship. But even with all that, she still thinks she needs to marry someone, and he doesn't really want her to find some random guy. 

He _is_ trustworthy. He knows that. And someone else might not be. It's a genuinely terrible idea, but if she's going to do it, she should do it with someone who sees it as a disaster, not an opportunity.

Which is how, the next day, they end up with the compromise: if she still wants to get married in two weeks, he'll marry her. Mostly because he's fairly sure if she found some random douchey rich guy to marry because her mother disapproves of her ending her marriage, he would actually slug the guy. Bellamy hasn't gotten in a fistfight since high school, but something about Clarke's life makes him want to punch privileged assholes like he used to.

Okay, he never stopped wanting to do that, but they stopped giving him much reason to.

Right now, he wants to punch her mother, because Clarke is actually _saying_ , "I've got another groom lined up," less than five minutes into their conversation. He'd sort of hoped she was wrong about her mother's reaction, that Abby Griffin wouldn't want Clarke to get married after her fiance turned out to be a cheater.

Unfortunately, they're both somehow worried about Clarke's career. It is objectively ridiculous.

"He got caught with pot in high school," Clarke is saying, when he zones back in. "Everyone got caught with pot in high school."

"What?" he asks.

She gives him a smile. "Not you." She listens to her mother for a second and then says. "Monty would be fine. But it's not Monty. Have you ever been arrested?" she adds, to him.

"No."

"He doesn't have a criminal record," she reports. And then, "Bellamy Blake." 

The pause is longer after that, and Bellamy assumes her mother is freaking out. Clarke mentioned at some point that she got his name from Abby, who got it from Marcus Kane, and there's no universe where any woman of Clarke's mother's rank is pleased to hear her daughter is planning to marry her contractor. Even if it's just from desperation.

"I like him," Clarke says, and he hits his head on the counter, just because she sounds so--sure. Passionate, even. She shoots him a smile as she adds, "And he said yes."

"I didn't say yes," he points out.

"You did. Just with conditions." She turns her attention back to her mother, and he tries not to make a big deal of this. Because--it's not. It would be actively _stupid_ to get excited about this. If she marries him, it will be bad.

But--she likes him. And they're going to be spending time together for the next two weeks.

He's certainly had worse prospects.

*

One of the many awkward things about agreeing to marry someone just in case is that it takes up a decent amount of his time, helping Clarke, but he also doesn't really know what to tell his friends about what he's doing. Miller knows he's leaving the job site more often, but since he's going with their employer, it's not like Miller can object. He's just silently judging. Which is basically par for the course, with Miller.

And Bellamy is enjoying himself to a truly stupid degree. Because, yeah, on the one hand, the wedding he's planning bears no resemblance to a wedding he'd want to have. It's way too big and fancy and impersonal. But being with Clarke is fun, and being around for her at all these stupid things is nice, and, basically, he's in over his head and it is going to cause some issues, probably sooner rather than later.

Which is why he has to tell Gina and Miller, so they can talk him down.

He settles on, "Fuck, wedding planning sucks," for his opener.

"Please tell me you haven't upgraded to actually helping with the wedding," Miller says. "If you're trying to destroy it from the inside, we're having a fucking intervention."

"She dumped her fiance," he says. "I'm the groom until I can talk her out of it."

"The what," says Miller.

"She's a relationship counselor. It's not like she can just not get married."

"I'm pretty sure not how it works."

"Trust me, I tried to tell her that."

"What even happened?" Gina demands. She sounds kind of angry, which he wasn't expecting.

"I'm pretty sure it's not actually going to happen," he says. "Her fiance was cheating and she's not ready to cancel the wedding yet. I get it."

"So you proposed?"

"She said her mom was going to make her a list of potential replacement grooms. That's fucked up."

"And marrying you isn't fucked up?" She still seems disproportionately pissed, and Bellamy was not prepared.

"Like I said, I don't think she's going to do it. What's the big deal?"

"You don't think it's fucked up?" 

"I think her whole life is fucked up right now. I wanted her to not marry the guy, but it still sucks for her. And it's not like I mind."

"I know you have a crush," says Gina. "And I like Clarke. But you shouldn't marry someone who would ask you for a favor like this."

"That's not how it was," he says. "She's not bribing me or anything. She didn't mean to ask, but once she realized what she was saying--" To his surprise, there's a lump in his throat. "You don't think I'd be a good husband?"

"You'd be great," she says, firm. "I'm just not convinced she'd be a good wife."

"Good thing you're not the one on the hook to marry her." But this is Gina, and he figures--well, maybe he's being a dick. "It's not like I want to," he adds. "Trust me, this isn't what I'm looking for. You're right, I've got a crush. If she asked me out, I'd be fucking thrilled. But agreeing to marry her isn't about that."

"I know," says Gina. "That makes it worse." She worries her lip. "You're good at being needed, Bellamy. I know you'd do the same for anyone. That's why it's so shitty of her to ask."

"Not _anyone_ ," he says. "And it's really not--whatever you're thinking. It's not that. But thanks for worrying. I promise I'm not going to get into anything I can't get out of. She's having trouble, and I can help. But--be nice, okay? She's having a shitty time, and this is helping. It's not going to hurt me."

"It better not," she says. "I'll be nice."

"And hey," Miller adds, apparently satisfied that the worst of the fighting is over. "Congrats on the engagement, man."

He snorts, ducks his head. "Thanks. We're registered somewhere I couldn't afford to buy a single fork."

"Awesome." He nods to Gina. "He's buying the next round."

*

As he expected, Clarke calls it off a week before the wedding, and it's definitely a relief. Even more of a relief because there's still the house to finish-- _her_ house now, a shell that looks like all the others, but getting more interesting inside by the day--and her planning to stay. He doesn't need to marry her now, not if he can keep seeing her. And all indications are that he can. She doesn't seem interested in going anywhere.

" _No wonder your advice sucks, you can't even tell a dude is cheating on you. Delete your site_." She makes a face. "All those words are misspelled, by the way."

"I kind of figured. How many supportive ones do you have?"

"Way more. I'm not saying these are the majority. They're just the best ones to share."

"Uh huh."

"It doesn't bother me. I always get flames. It's part of being an online public figure. Some people think I suck and want me to leave the internet. I don't care."

He has to smile. "Yes, you do. If you didn't care, you wouldn't be reading them aloud to me."

"I occasionally need validation. Sue me."

"I think you're as good at your bullshit job as you ever were," he tells her, and she laughs and shoves him.

"You're such a charmer."

"You wanted to marry me," he shoots back. "So I must be."

To his surprise, she sobers, looks at him like she's really thinking it over. "You do fulfill all the criteria."

He's a little drunk too, so he's not actually sure what she means. "I do?" 

Her gaze is steady, and he can feel the alcohol leaving his body too. This feels important. "I trust you," she says, moving a little closer, so he can feel her warmth against his side. "In all the ways I have to. You're great with money. You're--well, you're fine with my mom. As good as anyone is. And I'm looking forward to you meeting my friends. I know you'd never hurt me. Any of the ways you could. I trust you with everything, Bellamy."

It takes him a moment to recover, because--he knew she liked him. He was pretty sure she was at least a little attracted to him. But he hadn't, in all honesty, thought that she'd really picked _him_. Even with everything that had happened, it felt like he was just in the right place and the right time in her life to be a safety net. Which he didn't mind, but--it wasn't what he wanted. "You're drunk and rebounding," he tells her, and her face falls for a second, so he slides his arm around her shoulders, lets himself be close to her. She smells like shampoo and alcohol and fits so perfectly against him it doesn't feel real. "Next time you ask me to marry you, be sober, be out of your last relationship for, uh, at least six months." He swallows, lets himself add, "And you should be dating me too. Which--also when you're sober. And after we get through your non-wedding." When she doesn't object and just snuggles closer, he leans down to kiss her hair. "Those are my criteria. So, let me know when you fulfill them."

She pushes her face against his chest. "How long do I have to wait after my non-wedding?"

Somehow, it's easy to be honest. He trusts her too, after all. "I really don't want to be a rebound, okay? If this happens, I want it to be real."

"Okay," she says, and he doesn't think he's ever heard her so happy. "I'll give it a couple weeks." 

And they're a good couple of weeks. Amazing, even, except for the knowledge nagging at the back of his mind that he could have her. Have _this_. It's hard not to kiss her at the wedding, hard not to call her up and ask her if she wants to get dinner with him. Intellectually, he knows waiting is good. Intellectually, he knows he doesn't want to fuck this up, because he thinks it could be _good_. He's not really a believer in the idea that there's only one person for everyone. But--he thinks this could be it for him, and the last thing he wants to do is fuck it up by being impatient. 

It's three weeks after the wedding when she calls and tells him, "Okay, I'm officially moved in."

"What does officially mean here?" he asks. His part in the house has been done for a few days, and he and Miller are at a new site. It's nice, in terms of having something different to do, but he does miss just getting to hang out with Clarke all day. The new employers aren't nearly as fun.

"All my stuff is here, I'm out of my place in Boston, and I'm not staying in that stupid inn anymore. Want to come see?"

"I don't know, I'm pretty sick of that place," he teases, and she laughs.

"There's booze."

"Oh, wow. That's a surprise. You never have booze."

"Never mind, you're not invited anymore. I'll just drink alone, in my awesome house. Without you."

"Alone?" he asks, trying to sound natural. "This isn't a housewarming party?"

"No, that sounds like a pain. I just figured we'd have dinner and watch Netflix or something."

It sounds vaguely like torture, but the kind of torture he's into. Any time with Clarke is a good time, even if his sexual frustration is reaching epic levels.

He cares about her. He's pretty sure he's in love with her. She's worth waiting for.

"You want me to pick up dinner?" he asks. "I'll be done here in like twenty minutes."

"That would be great. See you soon."

The house looks great, and he makes sure to praise all the things he did and none of the new things she brought, and she laughs and shoves him and tells him he's an asshole. They eat takeout on her ridiculously comfortable couch, and when they're done, he says, "Netflix?" 

And she slides into his lap and kisses him.

The laugh that bubbles out of him is all relief, and the only problem with it is that it's hard to laugh and kiss her at the same time. But she's smiling too, almost nervous, and there's no question at all that he loves her.

"You good?" he asks anyway. Just to be sure.

"Great."

There isn't a universe where he can make himself ask again. "Just remember, six months before you propose."

She nudges her nose against his neck. "That's so long, though."

He catches her jaw to kiss her again, can't get over the way she melts into him, the way she kisses him back without reservation.

"You don't want to cancel another wedding," he tells her. "It was a huge pain in your ass."

She bumps her noses against his. "Or we could just not cancel it."

He thinks they wouldn't. He thinks this really might be it. "Or that," he says. "In six months."

He tugs on her shirt, and she lifts her arms so he can pull it off her. She's wearing a lacy bra, the kind he's pretty sure girls reserve for special occasions, and he has to grin.

"Planning this?" he asks.

"It was a possibility." She settles in for another long kiss. "You know, I have a really nice bed."

"I know. I'm the one who made it, remember?"

She nips his bottom lip. "I'm just saying, it's probably nicer than my couch."

"Yeah, but we're already on your couch."

"You don't want to go all the way to the bed?" she teases.

He's never going to get tired of kissing her. There's no possible way. "Nope," he says. "I want to stay right here."

Her fingers slide under his shirt to pull it off too. "Well," she says. "When you put it like that."

*

They get married in the backyard of her--now their--house, with only about thirty people in attendance. Clarke's mother is vaguely horrified, but Clarke points out she's not the one getting married, and all of their obscure relatives are probably still pissed after the last wedding fell through, so they'll be glad to not have to go to this one.

" _Now that you're married will you leave other people alone and stop telling them they're wrong about their lives?_ " she reads, resting her head on his stomach.

"I can't believe you're reading hate mail on our honeymoon. I feel like that's a sign I'm doing something wrong."

"Can't you? This is definitely what you signed up for."

"Yeah, I guess I saw this coming." He threads his hand in her hair. "I'm not getting the logic on this one. Is this, like--you're married so you don't have to work anymore?"

"Or I was just giving advice to sate the loneliness inside."

"That must be it, because I don't make enough money for the lifestyle you're accustomed to."

"Shit. We'd better get divorced."

"That's probably even more of a pain than canceling a wedding."

She turns off her phone and sets it aside, settling on top of him for a warm kiss. "Gotta be, yeah. Might as well stay married."

"Yeah," he agrees, sliding his hands up her back, mapping her spine. "After we went to all this trouble."


End file.
